


A Fear of Falling

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel, Acrophobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death (but NOT Dean or Cas), Detective Noir, Ex-Cop Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Inspired by Vertigo (1958), M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Private Investigator Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, discussions of past drug abuse, discussions of past suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24850396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: After his partner’s tragic death, Dean Winchester resigns from San Francisco PD to work as a private investigator. Dean’s first case is a make-or-break opportunity: tailing the youngest brother of powerful shipping magnate Nick Novak.Castiel Novak, estranged from his family by choice, lives a quiet life 30 miles north of the city. His lonely but peaceful existence comes to a rapid end when he’s drawn into a plot to fake his brother’s death.As Dean and Castiel’s paths cross and they grow closer, the noose of a dangerous conspiracy tightens around them. Will they discover the truth before it’s too late?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 121
Kudos: 187
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection, The Destiel Self-Rec Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a detective noir loosely based on one of my favorite movies, "Vertigo" (1958). You don't have to have seen the movie to follow the story. And, if you have seen it, I want to reassure you: this fic diverges significantly from the movie in the second half, and the boys WILL get their happy ending.
> 
> A GIANT THANK YOU to my amazing beta, [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv), who also happens to write wonderful Dean/Cas fics, and you should check her out. Thanks also to regnumveritatis, who helped me brainstorm this when it was just a vague concept in my head and gave me the hair-dye idea. Much of this story sprang from that germ.
> 
> One more thing: while this is a WIP, the story is fully drafted and will not be abandoned. My plan is to update every Saturday from now on until the story is finished. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

**Prologue**

Dean’s lungs are on fire. There’s an agonizing stitch in his side. His knees are shaking under him.

He pushes it all down.

There’s a reason he’s lasted almost two decades at San Francisco PD. When you pursue a suspect, everything else takes a back seat. That’s how you stay alive. This particular suspect is small fry, but he’s got information they need, him and Benny. They can’t afford to lose the guy.

“Fuck,” Dean spits out as his target leaps to grab the bottom of a fire escape two buildings down, pulling himself up like a goddamn monkey and scrambling for the stairs to the roof.

In that split second of indulging his frustration, Benny jogs past him.

“Keep up, old man.” Even running and breathing heavily as he is, Benny flashes Dean a cocky grin in the dark of the alley.

“Fuck you,” Dean calls after him as he picks up speed again. “I’m two years younger than you.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see you do  _ this _ .”

With a fleet-footed athleticism that no one would suspect in a guy this sturdy, Benny vaults onto the fire escape, pulling himself up in a swift, graceful arc of muscle.

Dean reminds himself forcefully that his dick is among the things that need to take a back seat while he’s in active pursuit. Then he scrambles up onto the shaky, rusty metal structure, probably looking a lot less dignified than either Benny or the goon.

By the time Dean makes it to the top of the staircase, the suspect is already most of the way across the roof, Benny hard on his heels. Dean jogs after them, wishing he hadn’t eaten that piece of pie after dinner. He isn’t out of shape, exactly. Just maybe not the kind of shape he was in at twenty-five.

And then the fucking goon leaps across what has to be a hundred-foot drop, right onto the next roof.

Fuck.

He can’t let himself think about it. He can’t.

Ten steps ahead, Benny’s already jumping. So Dean jumps too.

He hits the next roof on all fours, adrenaline pumping frantically through his blood. There’s no time to notice the ache in his muscles. He needs to keep going.

The suspect is coming up on the end of the second roof now. The gap to the next building looks a little wider, and he’d be landing on a slanted, tiled surface. There’s no way he’d actually—

The guy jumps, hits the roof, gets his feet under him and takes off again. Benny, apparently insane, follows after, landing with only a slight scrabbling of his soles on slippery tiles. Dean shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but this is Benny, and he can’t just let him go it alone.

Dean jumps.

As soon as he hits the roof, it all goes wrong. The heavy impact on a steep incline makes him land awkwardly, his knee twisting at an agonizing angle. Dean’s hands scrabble for purchase on the tiles and, after a breathless three seconds, they find it. Heaving a sigh of relief, Dean tries to get his feet to support him.

As soon as he puts his weight on his twisted knee, blinding, white-hot pain shoots through him, knocking him off balance. He loses his grip again, and he’s sliding. 

He’s falling.

At the very last second, forty years’ worth of survival instinct kick in, and his hands grab hold of something.

The gutter.

He’s dangling above a hundred-foot drop, and there’s nothing but a creaking, flimsy metal pipe to stop him from plummeting to the ground.

He must have yelled, because Benny stops. Turns.

When Benny’s eyes land on Dean, they widen, and he doubles back, the goon forgotten. Carefully, deliberately, Benny shuffles back down the tiles, extending his arm. “Give me your hand!”

Swallowing nausea and naked panic, Dean grits out, “Go. Go after the guy. I’m fine. I can hold on.”

“You’re not fine, asshole.” Benny’s still out of breath, exertion and adrenaline making his voice shaky. “You’re gonna fall. Give me your fucking hand.”

That’s not going to happen. Dean knows how slippery those tiles are. A couple are even loose. Benny looks steady enough on his own, but if he has to pull up Dean’s weight, there’s at least an even chance he’s going to overbalance. In which case, they’d both fall.

Dean looks down, ignoring the screaming pain in his biceps and shoulders, trying to see if there’s some kind of foothold. Anything that might break his fall if he lets go. There’s a deck, two floors below and a little to his left. He should be OK if he can aim his jump just right. Dean turns his gaze back up to the roof, trying to tell Benny, whose hand is still stretched out toward him.

“What’s wrong with you? Give me your hand!” Benny’s inching forward, closer and closer to the edge, trying to grab Dean’s arm.

And then he steps on a loose tile.

In a second that sears itself into Dean’s retinas, Benny’s feet lose their hold. He topples over, plummeting headfirst over the edge.

Dean looks down as Benny falls, limbs spread in a useless mockery of flight.

Benny’s body hits the ground with a sickening thud.

Dean can’t tear his eyes away, even as the pavement below swims in and out of focus. It seems to be coming closer, beckoning, pulling Dean down.

Dean lets go, and he falls.

***

**PART I**

Lisa is bent over her drafting table, forehead wrinkled with concentration and dark, full hair framing her face. The pencil in her right hand travels in quick, sure strokes across the paper in front of her.

Dean fidgets. “Don’t know why I even bother coming to see you. It’s not like you ever pay any attention to me.”

Proving his point, Lisa hums absently in response, pencil still sketching.

Dean’s sprawled out on Lisa’s couch, legs resting on a tastefully patterned ottoman. He’s got his back to the large bay window: the one he knows has a really stunning view of Russian Hill, and, in the distance, the water of the Bay glittering in the sunlight of a bright fall day.

Dean used to really appreciate that view. But that was… before.

Feeling bored, he sits up and starts fiddling with one of the dozens of trinkets that Lisa seems to think should cover every surface of her tiny studio apartment. She claims it’s for inspiration. Lisa works as a graphic designer for an ad agency downtown, so she spends a lot of her time sketching out ideas for campaigns. But a small ceramic angel, wearing nothing but a diaper and a simpering smile? What the fuck?

Lisa looks up from her work, studying him with a look that’s stern, but not entirely unkind. “Dean, you’ve been hanging out here almost every day since…” She breaks off, and they both silently acknowledge the thing they don’t talk about. “Over the past couple of months,” she finishes, like that’s what she meant to say all along. “I do have work to do, you know.”

Dean forces a smile. “Good thing we never got married, I guess, if I bother you so much.” It doesn’t come out sounding as light as he wanted it to.

Lisa snorts. “Wasn’t ever going to happen, and we both know it. We were engaged for all of three weeks, you might remember.” Dean thinks he sees a shadow slide across her face, but it’s gone before he can be sure. “That was right around the time you figured out you were more into men than women.”

Dean winces, because he knows he wasn’t nearly as good to Lisa as she deserved. They’d seemed like endgame, once. He hadn’t just proposed on a whim. But it had taken proposing for him to realize he was rushing headlong into something that didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like  _ him _ .

Somehow, in the ten years since then, Lisa has become his best friend. Really, their breakup is the only sore subject between them, and Dean could kick himself for bringing it up.

He wouldn’t have, before. But since the accident, he hasn’t felt in control of himself. Every waking minute feels like walking a tightrope and every action, every word has the potential to knock him off balance.

The awkward silence stretches between them until finally, Lisa takes pity on him and changes the subject.

“Anyway, no point dwelling on it, right? How’re things at Winchester Investigations?”

The warmth in her voice sounds like forgiveness for Dean’s bone-headedness, and he’s grateful for it.

“Good, actually. Might finally have a case.”

“Really?” She glances up from her sketch again, a bright smile lighting her up. “That’s fast, right? You’ve only been open what, a week?”

Dean grins. Lisa knows exactly how long he’s been open because she was the one who planned and hosted his “grand opening.” Aside from the two of them, the guest list had included exactly three other people: his kid brother and two friends from the department. He used to have more friends there, back when he was “Detective Dean Winchester, SFPD,” but he resigned for a reason. He couldn’t face the looks anymore — the constant reminders that Benny’s dead, and Dean’s the one who got him killed.

“Yeah, about a week,” he allows. “Anyway, guess who I got an appointment with this afternoon to talk terms?”

Lisa props her chin on her fist, all mock thoughtfulness. “A husband who wants you to prove his wife’s  _ not  _ cheating on him.”

“Fine, be like that.” Dean leans back into the couch and pretends to be extremely interested in a small stain on the ceiling. “If you’re not taking this seriously, I don’t have to tell you a thing.”

Lisa actually cackles. “You’re dying to tell me, and we both know it. Spill.”

Dean does know it, and so, after a short pause for dramatic effect, he spills. “Nick fucking Novak.”

Lisa’s eyebrows travel halfway up her forehead. “The Novak Shipping CEO?”

“Yup,” Dean says, giving the end of the word an extra pop. “That’s the one.”

“What’s he want you to do?”

Dean shrugs and pulls his legs off the ottoman. “Not sure. But it’s Nick Novak, who’s made of money; and he wants to hire me, who’s broke. Kind of all I need to know.” 

He pushes himself off the couch. As he gets up, his phone slides out of the back pocket of his jeans. He twists to retrieve it, and his eyes catch a glimpse of the view outside the window, cars and people moving three floors below. Dizziness hits him like a sharp rock to the head. He squeezes his eyes shut and staggers back.

Even with his eyes still closed, Dean can feel the weight of Lisa’s stare. Sometimes, she’ll leave him alone over stuff like this, but today’s not his lucky day, apparently. “Dean, are you sure you’re ready to take a case? I mean, you can’t so much as look out a third-floor window without…”

“I’m  _ fine _ .” He puts as much anger into the words as he can muster, which is a considerable amount, and Lisa deserves none of it.

She knows it too, and her concerned frown slips into something harder. “If you’re fine, then prove it.” Slamming down her pencil, she gets up and stalks over to the kitchen. She comes back with a small, three-step ladder and plants it in front of Dean, cutting off his exit. “Climb up. Do it. Onto the top step.”

Dean glares. First at Lisa, then at the ladder, then back at Lisa.

“Come on, tough guy.” She crosses her arms. “You’re fine, right?”

Dean would take her up on the challenge. He really, really wants to. But he knows exactly what would happen. He might be fine on the first step. Maybe even the second. But by the third, his head would be spinning, and he wouldn't be seeing Lisa’s living room anymore. He’d be seeing a hundred-foot drop below him, and the ground, beckoning, shifting, coming closer.

His twisted knee and the ankle fracture he sustained when he hit the deck healed within two months. He’d hoped his problem with heights would go away too, if he just gave it time. No such luck.

He picks up the ladder and moves it out of his way, then pushes past Lisa and out the door.

***

His father’s office is the last place Castiel ever thought he’d see again.

No, not his father’s office, he reminds himself. It’s Nick’s office now. Has been for years.

Not that anyone would be able to tell. The place looks immaculate, but also like it hasn’t been redecorated in fifty years — all wood-paneled walls, heavy leather armchairs and mediocre paintings of Novak Shipping cargo vessels. The ostentatious mahogany desk hasn’t moved since the days when Castiel squatted on the floor in front of it with his toy soldiers. The large window behind the desk frames a view that’s as familiar to Castiel as the palm of his hand: a skyline of cranes, loading cargo onto ships lined up along the Potrero Point waterfront.

The last time Castiel was here was the day his father’s will was read, more than a decade ago now. That was also the day he left the safety of the family business, cut ties with his brothers and set out to make his own way.

It was the best decision he’d ever made. He spent his inheritance on a nice, small bungalow in Muir Beach, just to the north of the city, across the Golden Gate Bridge. Then, he set up a small CPA practice, putting to use the accounting degree his father forced him to get so he could be “useful to the family.”

For the past decade, Castiel has needed to be useful to no one but himself and his clients. It’s been peaceful.

Or perhaps, he should say it  _ was  _ peaceful.

All it took was one phone call from Nick to shatter the fragile equilibrium of his existence. With unfailing accuracy, his older brother had homed in on the one thing that was bound to get Castiel’s attention: “Jimmy’s in trouble. He needs you.”

Jimmy is the only member of his family Castiel ever  _ wanted _ to see again.

After their mother’s death, Castiel and Jimmy became inseparable, their older brothers Nick and Michael too busy competing for the role of Novak Shipping’s next CEO to notice anyone else.

Nick won out eventually, stepping into the leadership role as their father’s health declined. Michael, a sore loser, left to start his own shipping line, taking with him the clients he’d cultivated over the years. It was a sore subject, to say the least.

Amidst all this, Castiel swore to himself that he would always be the one to look out for Jimmy. The baby. The fragile one. The one who was named after their father but, of all the Novak children, was the most like their mother.

But somehow, in a process so slow that Castiel missed it until it was too late, Jimmy slipped through his fingers.

The day the will was read, Jimmy was barely present as the lawyers rambled on. His pupils were dilated, body rocking from side to side, a vacant grin on his face.

Castiel recognized the signs. Depression and painkillers had claimed their mother; now they were digging their claws into his brother too.

Castiel tried to pull Jimmy aside, after everything was over and done with, but his brother brushed him off. He disappeared out the front gate, stumbling down Third Street, and out of sight. 

For years after, Castiel tried repeatedly to reach out to Jimmy. Every single one of his phone calls and text messages went unanswered. Eventually, and to his own lasting regret, Castiel stopped trying.

Before Nick’s phone call, Castiel hadn’t so much as heard Jimmy’s name in years.

And now, Nick is late. Of course he is. With Nick, everything is a power play. No doubt, Castiel thinks, his brother is just outside the office, getting off on the idea that he’s making his wayward relative wait for him.

As if summoned by the thought, Nick flings open the door behind Castiel and strides into the room. He’s a little thicker around the middle than Castiel remembers, but otherwise, he looks more or less the same: dark blond hair and carefully cultivated stubble on a broad, roughly hewn face, sitting atop an exquisitely tailored suit.

Nick grabs hold of Castiel’s hand and pulls him into what can best be described as an aggressive hug, complete with back slaps that verge on painful.

“Little brother,” Nick says, and his grin is all teeth. “So good to see you. It’s been too long.”

“I beg to differ,” Castiel mumbles, lowering himself into a chair, spine as stiff as he can make it. To show weakness or hesitation in front of Nick is to invite trouble.

“Come on now, Cas.” Nick is still showing his teeth in that false, sharp grin of his. “I know we haven’t always been close, but let’s let bygones be bygones. We’re here as allies in a common cause, right?”

Castiel clenches his jaw. “I take it that by ‘cause,’ you mean our brother.”

“Jimmy, yes,” Nick says, trying and failing to sound concerned. “You’re aware, of course, of his unfortunate… issue with narcotics.”

Castiel has never liked euphemisms, but right now, he has other priorities than teaching his brother to call a spade a spade. “Is Jimmy alright? Is he hurt?”

“He isn’t hurt,” Nick says. After a beat, he adds, “Not yet.”

Castiel leans forward, his resolution to maintain careful control in front of Nick already starting to slip. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, here’s the thing, bro,” Nick says, spinning his chair to face the busy scene of the shipyard outside. “Jimmy’s been stealing to feed his habit, and a couple of weeks ago, he managed to steal from the wrong guy.”

Swallowing down his irritation at having to converse with the back of his brother’s head, Castiel asks, “Who?”

Nick shrugs as he spins back around. “Not important. The important part is this: this guy isn’t the type to let anything go. Jimmy came here asking for help. I was willing to give him the money to cover the debt, of course, but Jimmy insisted the guy wouldn’t take it. He just wanted Jimmy gone. Make an example, or some such thing.”

Nick looks vaguely bored by his own story — like it’s a distraction from more important things, as opposed to a matter of life and death for his brother.

“Where is Jimmy now?” Castiel can hear the note of urgency in his own voice and hates himself for letting it slip through. “I’ll talk to him. Maybe we can come up with some kind of plan. Leave the state for a while. I could…”

Nick raises an eyebrow at Castiel, studying him like a scientist would a deformed specimen. “You could... what, Cas? You have no money beyond whatever measly fees your clients pay you. You don’t have any connections.” His eyes gleam vindictively when he adds, “Why do you think Jimmy came to  _ me _ for help, brother?”

Castiel nods. He’d been wondering about that, because if there’s one thing he knows about Jimmy, even after all these years, it’s that he despises Nick. To come here for help, his little brother had to be truly desperate.

“So why did you call me, then? Just to gloat?” Castiel reins in his voice carefully once again, keeping his anger and frustration to a simmer just below the surface. If he continues to let his feelings show, Nick will see it as an invitation to get under his skin.

“Not at all,” Nick says, all skin-deep benevolence. “Jimmy is safe in the hidey-hole I found him, for now, but his, ah, creditor is going to track him down eventually.” Nick’s eyes wander over Castiel, taking his measure. “But there _ is _ something you can do to help Jimmy, Cas. Something that could buy him time to get to a real, permanent place of safety and, if we’re lucky, will give that low-life a reason to stop looking for him.”

Castiel frowns, tilting his head in confusion. “How can I…?”

Nick leans across the desk, fixing Castiel’s blue eyes with his own. Their eyes have always been the only point of resemblance they’ve shared.

“I need you to be Jimmy, Cas.”

*** 

Castiel sits at his kitchen table, looking out at the ocean view beyond the sliding glass door that opens onto his deck. Usually, the repetitive, undulating movement of the water below the cliffs calms him. Not today.

He picks up the wet, stained towel off the table and rubs at his scalp, which is burning from the aftereffects of cheap hair dye.

Nick’s plan makes a strange kind of sense. There has always been a pronounced resemblance between Castiel and Jimmy — so pronounced, they were often mistaken for twins before their estrangement. They have the same blue eyes, slim jawline, full lips and long, thin nose.

The only difference, really, is in the color of their hair. Where Castiel, like Michael, inherited their father’s dark brown, Nick and Jimmy are dark blond, like their mother.

Hence the hair dye.

The idea is this: Castiel is going to stay at the family home for a few nights and spend his days traveling about the city — as Jimmy.

He’ll have to make sure to stick to crowded places. Considering someone wants Jimmy dead, it’s the safest thing to do, but it’s also a way to establish as many witnesses as possible to Jimmy’s continued presence in San Francisco. The real Jimmy, Nick had explained, will use the diversion to travel to a permanent hideout of his own choosing.

To further ensure Castiel’s safety, Nick will be hiring someone to follow him around the city: an ex-cop private detective by the name of Dean Winchester.

Castiel isn’t sure he should entrust his well-being to anyone associated with Nick, but it doesn’t make a real difference. He is going to do this to help Jimmy. Nothing matters more than that.

The final step of the plan will be to ensure that the man who is after Jimmy stops looking for him altogether. Castiel is going to be in charge of implementing this part by himself, once he gets word from Nick that Jimmy has a sufficient head start.

Castiel will drive to Point Bonita Lighthouse and make it appear as though Jimmy jumped to his death off the viewing platform. Exactly the way their mother did, almost twenty-five years ago now.

Hearing this part, Castiel had almost stormed out of Nick’s office.

“Can you really afford to be squeamish about this, Castiel? Remember what’s at stake here,” Nick had said, then. “And really, the connection is what makes it believable, don’t you think? Jimmy was always closer to mother than any of us. He has the same troubles with narcotics that she did, and he’s just about the same age now that she was when she died.”

It was an uncomfortable and twisted logic, but logic nonetheless.

Castiel is going to ensure that his own trench coat will be found on the platform. Nick himself and the detective, Dean, will identify the coat as Jimmy’s. Dean, Nick assured Castiel, will also testify that he saw Jimmy standing at the edge of the viewing platform and never saw him come back. It should be enough to have Jimmy declared dead by suicide.

In the end, the whole charade is unlikely to take up more than a week of Castiel’s life. A small price to pay for the chance he’s wanted ever since the day he watched Jimmy walk away from him: to be allowed to take care of his brother again.

Castiel rubs at his hair with the towel, willing his thoughts to stop running in circles.

At least his scalp has stopped itching from the infernal dye. He walks into the bathroom, tossing the discolored towel into the hamper as he goes. When Castiel reaches the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror. 

Jimmy’s reflection looks back at him.

*** 

Dean doesn’t care for Nick Novak. Not even a little.

There’s a constant glint of mockery in the back of his eyes that Dean’s seen on too many perps over a long career. It’s the one that says, “I’m five steps ahead of you and I don’t even care if you know it.”

Usually, that confidence in their own cleverness is misplaced. But there’s something different about Nick Novak, something that has had Dean feeling wrong-footed through the entire conversation.

He thinks he’s holding his own so far. Except maybe for that one moment of awkwardness where Nick, citing the sunny weather, invited Dean to have their discussion on the fifth-floor balcony that adjoins his office.

Dean had murmured, “Rather talk in here, if you don’t mind,” while trying not to betray the low thrum of panic coursing through his blood at the mere idea. Luckily, Nick  _ didn’t  _ seem to mind. If anything, he’d looked pleased and had settled in behind his desk, laying out the details of Dean’s assignment.

“So what you’re saying is, you want me to tail your kid brother. Jimmy.”

Nick nods, a smug smile on his face that Dean really wishes he could punch. He forces himself to remember the dollar amount Nick mentioned early on in this conversation. It had a lot of zeroes attached to it.

“That’s the basic brief, yes. But you should know that my brother has always been… delicate. Especially lately.” Nick pouts and looks down, possibly going for a concerned expression that should come easily to someone who isn’t a sociopath. Dean makes a mental note that this guy is most likely a sociopath.

“What do you mean by ‘delicate?’” Dean asks, trying to conceal his impatience. He doesn’t like it when people dance around the truth like this.

“What you have to understand about Jimmy,” Nick says, leaning back and swiveling in his ostentatious, padded leather chair, “is that he was very close to our mother. Our mother, unfortunately, suffered from depression and self-medicated to a harmful extent. In the end, she killed herself.”

Dean offers his condolences, because it seems like the decent thing to do, even if Nick looks about as affected by his own story as by yesterday’s weather. Nick nods his acknowledgement. “The thing is, Dean — it’s alright if I call you Dean, isn’t it?”

Dean had introduced himself with his full name, and he’d really rather not be on a first-name basis with this guy. But, like it or not, Nick Novak is the boss of him for at least as long as he’s paying his bills. “Fine,” he agrees, covering his gritted teeth with a closed-lipped smile.

“As I was saying, Dean,” Nick says indulgently, like they’re old friends, “the thing is, Jimmy is the same age now that our mother was when she died. And, like her, he’s suffering from an unfortunate dependency on narcotics.”

Dean tries to add two and two, but it seems to be coming out five. “Wait. If I’m following you here, your brother’s an addict, you’re worried he’s a suicide risk, and you want to solve the problem by having a private investigator tail him?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Nick says, actually looking pleased, like Dean’s intelligence is a little above the level where he expected to find it.

“Not to be rude, but have you tried rehab? A suicide hotline maybe?”

Nick’s lips quirk up in a smile that’s all teeth. “We’ve tried every option available, but our Jimmy, unfortunately, doesn’t want to face his problems. The family, we’re at the end of our rope, Dean. Jimmy lives with me at the moment, so I can keep an eye on him after business hours. What I need is for someone to watch him during the day time and, if necessary, stop him from harming himself.”

Dean nods, slowly. He’s still thinking of that dollar amount, but there’s something else too. He might not like or trust this Nick character, but he can understand wanting to keep a troubled little brother safe. He’d hire someone to watch Sam 24/7 in a heartbeat if he had that kind of money.

He’s still trying to figure out Nick’s angle, but for now, he can’t see how getting paid to keep someone alive could be a bad thing.

“When do you need me to start?”

*** 

That night, Dean finds himself at Ernie’s, of all places.

Ernie’s is easily one of the most upscale restaurants in the city, and Dean was a little worried he wouldn’t even be let in. He doesn’t exactly own any suits without either a hole in the crotch or a funny stain on the collar.

To his everlasting amazement, though, when he gives his name to the concierge, the guy says, “Ah yes, Mr. Novak’s guest” and waves him right on through to the bar.

The plan is for Dean to sit here and wait for Nick Novak to show up for dinner with his wife and kid brother, so he can get a good look at the guy he’s supposed to be following around starting tomorrow. Dean’s on his third shot of whiskey by the time the Novaks decide to make their appearance.

Nick’s walking in front as the group passes the bar on the way to the main dining room, his arm around a gorgeous, tall woman with flowing curls. The brown of her hair is offset by golden highlights that definitely don’t occur in nature. Dean’s seen her picture somewhere, maybe while flipping through magazines at the doctor’s office. Her name is something weird and pretentious. Anael, maybe? In any case, she’s much too beautiful for a sleazeball like Nick Novak.

As the couple passes him, Dean notices someone trailing just behind. A guy who’s wearing a boxy trench coat over a wrinkled, navy-blue suit and looking extremely disgruntled. That’s got to be Jimmy.

Dean tries to get a good look without being too obvious about it, but that last part turns out to be tricky because Jimmy is easily the most handsome man Dean’s ever laid eyes on. His jawline is sharp to the point of danger, and his dark blond hair is messy in a way that suggests he’s got a habit of running his hands through it.

What really stops Dean in his tracks, though, are the eyes. They’re the most intensely, piercingly blue eyes Dean thinks he’s ever seen. And while they’re cool and distant at first glance, it seems more like a well-worn cover than like their natural state of being.

In fact, Dean can practically feel the emotions swirling just below that ocean-blue surface, begging for someone to dig deeper and discover them. Anxiety, anger, a hint of sadness — all the things Dean struggles with in the lonely darkness of his bedroom but doesn’t let himself feel in the light of day, mirrored back at him by a guy he’s never met, who hasn’t so much as looked his way.

And yet, even though Jimmy is nothing to him but a stranger, Dean feels almost irresistibly compelled to close the distance between them, hold him and maybe, just maybe, kiss a bit of that sadness and anger away.

Which is when those blue eyes notice him staring and look right back. Shit.

He had one job. One. Watch without being seen. So much for that.

This just means he’ll have to be even more careful not to be seen when he starts tailing Jimmy tomorrow.

Dean lets himself have another half second of returning Jimmy’s stare, even though he knows he shouldn’t. The guy’s head is tilted now with something like curiosity, lips ever so slightly parted.

Dean hunches his shoulders and turns back to his whiskey, trying not to dwell on the memory of those devastating eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you're back! This week, we get to learn a lot more about Cas and Dean's past and families.

It just figures, doesn’t it, that someone like Nick Novak lives in a place that’s fit for a supervillain.

The Novaks’ apartment building dates back to the heyday of art deco, and it’s huge. At least thirty floors high, built from immaculately maintained sandstone and decorated, for some reason, with actual fucking gargoyles.

The Novaks own the penthouse, of course.

Dean doesn’t spend a lot of time in this part of downtown, even though it’s only a twenty-minute drive from his place in the Richmond District. Something about the streetcars-Chinatown-and-the-Ritz-Carlton-ness of this neighborhood just rubs him the wrong way. He’s been sitting here for a good two hours, waiting for Jimmy Novak to emerge. Guy’s a late riser, apparently. Maybe Dean would be too, if he could afford to be.

His phone rings, and Dean feels around the Impala’s bench seat for it blindly, not wanting to take his eyes off the front door. Which is why he answers without checking the caller ID first.

“Dean. Nice of you to pick up the phone for once.”

Dean suppresses a groan and runs a hand over his face. “Hey, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam. And did you know you’ve let my last five calls go to voicemail? Five, Dean. Didn’t get a callback on a single one of them.”

“Been busy,  _ Sammy _ .” Dean puts a little bit of extra emphasis on the nickname his brother hates, just to be a dick. If you can’t tease your little brother, what good is life?

Silence on the other end of the line, but the bitchface is coming through loud and clear. “What’s up?” Dean asks, just to get it over with already.

“Lisa called. She’s worried about you.”

Anger claws its way into Dean’s skin; it’s irrational, but no less potent for it. Yes, he knows Lisa didn’t do anything wrong, not really, but sometimes, he wishes she’d just butt out. There’s a reason he hasn’t been returning Sam’s calls, and it’s so he doesn’t have to have conversations like this.

“Yeah, well, I’m fine,” he snaps. “Trying to work a case right now, actually.”

Sam sighs heavily, but takes the change of subject in stride. “Lisa said you’re working for Nick Novak?”

“Sure am. Taking from the rich to give to me. And I’m poor, so I’m basically Robin Hood.”

After a beat of silence, Sam says, “Man, I’ve been wanting to nail that Novak guy for years. He’s got dirt on him somehow. Just never been able to prove it.”

Sam, of course, is still with the department. People there like him well enough not to blame him for being the screw-up’s little brother, Dean figures. Sam has a good head on his shoulders, especially when it comes to spreadsheets and paper trails and all the other shit it takes to nail white-collar criminals.

Dean was always more of a “lock up dealers, killers and rapists” kind of guy, which is why he came up in vice, but eventually transitioned to homicide. Got assigned as Benny’s partner about five years ago, and they were a good fit from the start. Dean realizes eventually that Sam’s still talking in his ear and figures he should say something, but he’s spared from having to figure out that something on the spot, because this is the moment Jimmy Novak chooses to join the rest of the world.

With a perfunctory “Gotta go, Sammy,” Dean hangs up the phone. He watches as the tousled blond head ducks behind the steering wheel of an ancient Lincoln Continental, of all things. At a guess, production year 1978. Dean wonders if it’s some kind of weird affectation: slumming it with the masses who drive crappy cars.

After a minute, Jimmy’s car pulls out of the parking lot, heading west. Dean starts the Impala, relishing her engine’s throaty purr as always, and follows.

***

Castiel watches in his rearview mirror as a classic black muscle car peels out of a parking spot on Sacramento Street, about three car lengths behind him.

He wonders if that could be Dean Winchester’s car. It’s not exactly unobtrusive, but Castiel supposes it wouldn’t need to be. Dean is here to keep him safe, after all, so making his presence obvious could be a deliberate choice.

As Castiel turns right on Hyde Street, he keeps his eyes on his mirror. Sure enough, after a little while, the black car follows him around the corner. Castiel’s destination is to the south of here, but he’s in no hurry to get there, so he drives in circles for a while, eyes darting back again and again to see whether he is still being tailed. Several times, Castiel thinks he might have shaken the black car, but it always reappears eventually.

He isn’t even sure why he’s engaging in this pointless game of cat and mouse. It may have something to do with needing a distraction from the creeping unease he feels, being back in the family home after all these years, sleeping in his childhood bed.

The children of James and Amelia Novak never had a happy home, not even when their mother was still alive. She had her good days, sure, and she loved her children, especially Jimmy and Castiel. But as the years went on, the good days became fewer and farther between.

Castiel often thinks that if their father had taken his wife’s illness more seriously, had gotten her better help, she might still be alive today.

The mere thought causes him to grip the Continental’s steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles stand out stark white against his flesh. He needs to focus on something else. Allowing his mind to wander, Castiel is surprised to find it alights on the memory of a pair of startlingly green eyes. Last night, at Ernie’s: he’d been walking past the bar when he caught sight of a man about his age, solidly built and exceptionally handsome. He had been struck by the exhaustion radiating off this man, a sense of obvious weight that he found himself suddenly, irrationally desperate to lighten.

Castiel isn’t a confident man, exactly, but he also isn’t timid. In anything approaching a normal situation, he likes to think, he would have walked over and tried to talk to this stranger, to discover his past and see what it would take to become a part of his future. But it’s pointless to speculate, because he is never going to see the man again.

He shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, and discovers that his distraction has worked — if anything, too well, because he’s overshot his first stop. In his rearview mirror, he sees the black car, keeping its distance but still following. He  takes two more rights, then doubles back the way he came.

*** 

Clearly, this Jimmy Novak guy knows Dean is following him. They’ve spent the past hour going in circles around the city, taking turn after turn, never actually stopping anywhere.

When Dean took this job, he figured stealth would be optional. Which was why he wasn’t that worried about tailing the guy in his Baby, even though she doesn’t exactly blend. The way Nick Novak made it sound, his kid brother was strung out on drugs and pretty much stuck in his own little world.

That doesn’t seem to be the case at all.

Ever since last night, at Ernie’s, something’s been bothering Dean, and now, taking his third right turn in as many minutes, he thinks it over.

Dean’s spent a lot of time around addicts. His dad was an alcoholic. Sam struggled with drug addiction for a couple of years, right after the death of his wife. Which, if Dean’s honest with himself, is a big part of the reason why he decided to swallow down his instinctive distrust of Nick Novak and take on the job. He knows how it feels to ask his brother to get himself help, and be punched in the face for it.

Anyway, the point is this: Dean knows the signs of addiction. The vacant looks, the shaking hands, the sweat, the nervous energy. He saw none of those on Jimmy last night. 

If anything, he’s still haunted by the clarity, the sharpness of those eyes — the utter composure of the guy’s face and posture, masking acute emotions just below the surface.

Before Dean can draw any conclusions about his first impressions, though, Jimmy’s car finally pulls to a stop. Dean parks the Impala in an alley at the other end of the block and gets out quickly, just catching the back of Jimmy’s trench coat as it disappears into a flower shop. Slowly, Dean ambles back to his car and slides into the driver’s seat, waiting. After a couple of minutes, Jimmy emerges, clutching a small bouquet of what seem to be pink roses.

Which is absolutely the last thing Dean expected.

Shaking his head at the strange way this day is turning out, Dean watches the Continental go south along Folsom Street, heading into the Mission District. Just a couple of minutes later, Jimmy’s car pulls up in front of Mission Dolores.

Dean doesn’t know much about local history, but he knows the low-slung adobe buildings of the mission are old; colonial-times old. An imposing basilica towers over the rest of the complex, but Jimmy bypasses it. Instead, he ducks into a small chapel just to the left of the larger church, flowers clutched firmly in his right hand.

Intrigued, Dean follows.

The chapel’s interior is colorfully painted, but dimly lit. Squinting to help his eyes adjust to the relative darkness inside, Dean almost loses track of Jimmy, who has made a left at the altar and ducked back out of the building.

Dean trails after him at a leisurely pace, trying to prove after last night’s disaster that he  _ can _ in fact watch without being seen. When Dean emerges into the open air, Jimmy is in plain sight, facing him, but his eyes are closed. Dean ducks behind the trunk of an old cottonwood that’s growing right next to the doorway, watching and trying his hardest not to make a sound.

Jimmy has his hands crossed, and his lips are moving. At a guess, he’s praying. When his eyes open again, he stands for another minute or two, then turns to go.

Dean knows he should follow, but he can’t help it — he’s curious. So he takes the risk of a small detour, just to see the grave Jimmy visited.

The headstone is plain, completely unadorned except for a statue of a weeping angel, kneeling next to the marble and embracing it, its posture a study of grief.

The stone reads:

_ Amelia Novak _

_ Beloved Wife and Mother _

_ 1960-1995 _

__

Nestled against its base is a small bouquet of pink roses.

*** 

Something about being back in the city, revisiting the places of his childhood, has Castiel feeling nostalgic for his mother.

Nick gave him no instructions for what to do over the next few days, other than to go to public places and let “Jimmy” be seen. So Castiel indulges himself.

Perhaps the quiet little graveyard where his mother is buried doesn’t exactly qualify as a public place. But it seemed wrong to come back to his past, to try to fix a small part of what’s broken in his family, without paying his respects to her memory. So he decided to stop by with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and say a prayer, letting his mother know that he’s finally trying to do the right thing for his lost little brother. After that, he wants nothing more than to visit the place where he made his best memories with her: the Legion of Honor Museum.

On her good days, Amelia would bundle him into the car and take him here to marvel at the stately columns, expansive courtyards and decadent fountains. They would have lunch together at the museum café and argue about the merits (or lack thereof) of the artworks they had just seen. Of course, every one of their visits would end with a stop at one of the smallest galleries, tucked away near the back of the main building.

It was filled with illuminated manuscripts dating back to the middle ages and beyond, but Castiel’s mother would always lead him straight to the painting that was framed in the center of the eastern wall.

The painting is still there, and a small, padded bench is set back about six feet from it. Castiel sits there now, admiring the vivid colors outlined in gold leaf.

The painting shows a man in grey, tattered clothing, an expression of despair on his face as flames lick at him from every side. His arms are raised in supplication to an angel hovering just above him, arms and wings spread wide to receive the man’s soul into his protection.

Castiel can’t read the explanatory plaque from his current vantage point, but it doesn’t matter. He’s known it by heart for decades:

_ The Angel Castiel Raises a Righteous Man From Perdition _

_ Gold leaf and mineral paints on vellum _

_ Artist unknown _

Castiel’s eyes fall to the seat next to him on the bench, and he can almost imagine his mother sitting there, her dark-blond hair neatly brushed for once, her clothes plain as always, but clean.

“Did you know, Castiel, that I named you after the angel in this painting?” she would say, her expression soft and warm. And of course Castiel knew, had heard the story many times before, but he never once told her so. He always wanted to hear it again.

“Why, mom?” he’d whisper, the conversation a well-practiced dance between them.

“Because I want you to be my little angel, Castiel,” she’d breathe back at him, a conspiratorial smile playing around her lips, as though this was a precious secret for just the two of them to keep. “To be good, like your father used to be.”

Used to be, Castiel learned in bits and pieces over the years, before James Novak’s own father died and left his young son to fight tooth and nail to keep the struggling family business alive. James won that fight, but when it was done, he never quite found his way back to his wife and children. Castiel never knew his father to be anything but distant, his eyes fixed on stacks of reports even as his sons told stories of playground fights and test results, his thoughts miles away at every family outing.

“We met in the Peace Corps, you know? Your father and I,” Castiel’s mother would say as she studied the painting, her face pliant with remembered happiness. “We were going to save the world together.” Voice heavy with regret, she would inevitably add, “Of course, we never did get around to that.”

Whenever she arrived at this point in her story, all the stiffness in her posture would return, each frown line carved somehow deeper than it had been before. Castiel would find himself trying to offer comfort, wanting nothing more than to bring back the warm glow on his mother’s face.

“You still could, mom.  _ I _ could help you,” he would say, and she would kiss him and smile, but the smile never reached her eyes.

In the present day, Castiel sits, remembering the way his mother would put her arm around him and hold him close. “Not me, my angel,” his mother’s ghost says. “It’s too late for me.”

Castiel turns to face her, just as he did back then, and he almost flinches as he remembers the intensity burning in her eyes. He learned to fear that intensity as he grew older.

“No one can save the world alone, Castiel,” his mother tells him, back in the past. “But you’re going to save _ someone _ , my angel. I know you will.”

As a small boy, Castiel would look at the painting and nod, trying to mimic comprehension.

“That’s what I want you to do, do you hear?” his mother says, smiling at him thirty years ago, and sitting next to him, now. “If you can find a person, even just one, who deserves to be saved, you save them. You do whatever it takes, and when you have them, you grip them tight and never let them go. Do you understand?”

Castiel never did understand, but now, in this moment, he thinks he finally has the means to give his mother what she wanted. If he sees this plan through, he’s going to save his brother. And if Jimmy chooses to let him back into his life after that… Castiel will never let him go again.

Blinking away the ghostly vision on the bench beside him, Castiel looks back at the painting.

Reflected in the protective glass covering is a handsome, solidly built man with startlingly green eyes.

Castiel spins around to chase the reflection into reality .

He finds nobody there. 

*** 

“Hey, local history nerd? What do you know about the Novaks?” Dean poses the question as casually as he can manage — over his shoulder, while he’s pulling the meatloaf out of the oven and generally trying to navigate the cramped kitchen unit of his one-bedroom apartment. 

He woke up this morning feeling like a dick for being short with both Lisa and Sam lately. So he invited them over for dinner, hoping it’ll count as an apology. He figures they know him well enough to realize it’s meant that way.

“Um.” Sam scrunches up his forehead, thinking it over. “One of the most powerful families in the city these days. Company almost closed down a couple decades ago, I think, but James Novak, Nick Novak’s father, he turned things around.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean lowers the baking dish onto the trivet that’s already sitting on the counter and turns to grab some plates from one of the cupboards. All the while, he’s careful to keep his face turned away, trying not to let on how much this topic has been on his mind. “He’s dead now though, right?”

“Died like ten years ago, wasn’t it?” Lisa sidles up to Dean and grabs the stack of plates from him. Her question is directed at Sam, who hums in vague acknowledgement, stretching his long limbs across Dean’s ratty old two-seater. Lisa distributes the plates and grabs a stack of receipts Dean’s been meaning to file, making room for the food by tossing them onto a nearby shelf. “I remember because Novak Shipping was our agency’s biggest account at the time, and a lot of people were worried they’d drop us because Novak Senior was the one who hired us in the first place.”

Dean carries the baking dish, complete with trivet, to the table, raising an eyebrow at Sam. “Hey, any time you want to join us, man.”

Sam grins. “Look, I would’ve offered to help, but I learned my lesson after the third time you yelled at me for putting something in the wrong place on the counter.”

Dean grumbles, but doesn’t say anything, because Sam’s not exactly wrong. He snaps at Lisa when she gets in the way of his kitchen OCD too, but she tends to take it in stride.

Eventually, Sam does get off the couch and come over, folding his long, gangly limbs awkwardly underneath the table as Lisa bends over the baking dish, slicing the meatloaf. Dean moves his own chair back so he can sit down and suddenly finds himself a little too close to the window for comfort. Instinctively, he jolts back.

“It’s a good thing you’re fine,” Lisa says, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“So Nick was the one who took over after old Novak died?” Dean asks, pointedly ignoring the twin eye rolls in response to his obvious diversion.

“A few years before, actually, when James Novak got sick. There was a very public fight between the two older brothers, Nick and Michael, for control of the company,” Sam says, helping himself to mashed potatoes. “Not sure of the exact details, but Nick obviously won.”

“What happened to Michael?” Dean asks around a generous bite of meat loaf. Good table manners have never been his strong suit.

“He left to start his own company,” Sam says, also chewing. “It’s still in business, and been doing OK as far as I know, but nothing like the scale of Novak Shipping.”

Lisa doesn’t comment on the display of Winchester eating habits, choosing instead to be a little extra demonstrative about cutting small bites and chewing carefully before she weighs in. “The brother you’re tailing isn’t Michael though, right?”

“No,” Dean agrees, taking a sip of his beer. “Jimmy.”

Sam frowns. “There was another brother, I think, but he wasn’t involved in the company for very long. Mostly stayed out of the spotlight.”

“Remember his name?” Dean asks, intrigued.

Sam thinks it over for a minute, forehead pinched. “I feel like I heard it once or twice. Something kind of unusual. Can’t think of it right now.”

“How’s the job going, anyway?” Lisa asks.

“Fine, so far. Only been following the guy for a couple of days. He mostly just goes to parks and museums and stuff. Walks around.”

Dean’s attention wanders as he thinks about Jimmy standing at the edge of the lake next to the Palace of Fine Arts. He looked kind of anxious, his eyes darting around like he was trying to find something, or someone, but he had his back straight and both feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Something on your mind?” Lisa asks, astute as always.

Dean doesn’t exactly feel like answering, but Lisa’s always had a way of drawing things out of him. “It’s just… he seems like a put-together kind of guy, you know? Maybe a little nervous, but not… not depressed or suicidal.”

“You can’t really know what’s going on in somebody’s head,” Sam says, shrugging and scooping more potatoes. “Especially if you’re only watching him from a distance. You’ve never even talked to him, right?”

Dean shakes his head. They  _ haven’t  _ talked, but in a strange way, he feels connected to Jimmy. Which is impossible, because the most they’ve done is traded looks across the room at Ernie’s.

Lisa’s warm brown eyes are boring into the side of Dean’s face. “You like him,” she says, and it’s very clearly not meant as a question.

Schooling his face, Dean shrugs, even knowing it’s no good, because Lisa can read him like a book.

Sam looks at Dean with obvious fascination, then turns to Lisa, chuckling. “Wait, you mean he  _ like _ likes this guy?”

Dean can’t help a surge of irritation at his brother. Sam  _ knows _ that Dean’s not ready to get out there and that he hates being pushed about it. “What are we, in middle school? He’s easy on the eyes, and he doesn’t seem like an obvious nut job from a distance. That’s all. End of discussion.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but nods and looks contrite. Dean focuses on his food, not wanting to look at his brother while he’s wearing his “I know your pain” grimace.

Even though Dean can admit to himself that he’s intrigued by Jimmy, he’d never say so out loud. It would seem like a betrayal, somehow, and he’s annoyed with Sam and Lisa both for pushing the conversation in that direction.

After all, they’re among the few people who know that Dean and Benny weren’t just work partners.

They weren’t exactly in a real, committed relationship, but Dean had thought maybe they could be heading there, given just a little bit more time. Of course, it turned out that time was the one thing they didn’t have.

Part of Dean really wants to pay his brother back with some asshole remark. Defensiveness is his go-to response when people hit too close to his weak spots. But he holds back, because the reason Sam doesn’t have anything to brag about in the romance department either is that he never quite got over Jess. She died in a car accident more than ten years ago, but you don’t just bounce back from losing a spouse, Dean figures. By the time Dean drags himself out of that depressing train of thought, he realizes no one’s really said anything for a while.

They clean up together and watch TV for an hour, but Dean’s grateful when Sam makes his excuses and heads out. Lisa follows shortly after. Before she walks out the door, though, Lisa turns and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek. “Be careful, OK? Don’t do anything stupid.”

Dean bites back all the smartass retorts that suggest themselves, and just nods. Lisa gives him a soft, sad smile and turns to go.

That night, Dean lies in bed, a heavy weight on his chest that, for the first time in a long while, isn’t just about Benny and the accident. It feels a little like longing, but also like he’s about to get himself into something he might not be able to handle.

His hand wanders south past the waistband of his boxers, and he touches himself, stifling his moans as he pictures sad blue eyes looking down at him from above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear that, starting with the next chapter, I'll stop being such a tease about Dean and Cas meeting each other face-to-face. 
> 
> The painting at the museum is based on an illustration in a lore book that Bobby shows Dean and Sam in "Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester" (4x02). I couldn't find a picture of it to link to, but the man and angel in it actually look like Dean and Cas if you squint a little.
> 
> Next week: The boys get to meet (see? What did I tell you?). There is cliffside drama, followed by much softness and flirting. Also, a tragic, fateful day at Point Bonita Lighthouse. Things are really starting to go down with this next chapter, people.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a three-day weekend, so have a slightly early chapter. This is a big one - as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the form of comments!

Ever since Castiel spotted the reflection at the museum a few days ago, he’s been wondering: Is it possible the green-eyed man he saw at Ernie's has been following him around?

To find out, Castiel has made a point of slowing down without warning as he walks through the city, or stopping for extended periods to scan his surroundings.

Of course, the man _could_ be the mysterious creditor who is after Jimmy. But Castiel doesn’t think so, somehow. He doesn’t know this man, has never spoken to him, but looking into his eyes that night at the restaurant… he sensed a goodness there. It doesn’t make an ounce of sense, but the man seems like someone worth trusting.

Which leaves another possibility: He could be Dean Winchester, the private detective. Castiel has tried his best to catch glimpses of the driver behind the steering wheel of the black car that tails him across the city, but has never seen more than a shadowy outline.

Of course, in the end, none of it makes a real difference. Even if this man is Dean, he is part of the plan to stage Jimmy’s death, so it’s not exactly an ideal time for them to get to know each other. And once Castiel’s role in the plan is over, being seen with Dean could arouse suspicion and compromise Jimmy’s safety. Which means it’s not an option.

As these thoughts chase themselves around Castiel’s head on a seemingly endless loop, he realizes he’s climbing the walls. He feels trapped inside the Novak apartment, even in the city. He misses the beach.

Knowing he can’t go to his own house without potentially giving the game away, Castiel heads the opposite way along the coast: south, to Cypress Point. 

He’s always loved this rugged stretch of coastline. Walking along the ocean here means clambering down the sides of cliffs and over large, slippery rocks. It requires all of Castiel’s concentration, so there is no room for his thoughts to spiral and drive him half-crazy with speculation.

As soon as he pulls into the parking lot at Cypress Point, Castiel slides out of the driver’s seat of his Continental, inhaling deeply and savoring the stiff, cool breeze that pulls at his hair and coat. He turns his face into the sun and closes his eyes. For the first time since Nick’s call, he feels at peace.

On the drive down here, he had spotted the black car behind him, weaving in and out of traffic. The sight has become so familiar as to be almost reassuring. But Castiel has come here for a distraction, so he tears his thoughts away from the green-eyed stranger once again and starts walking, heading for the cliffs. It takes him a few minutes to get to his destination, and he only meets a handful of other people. A vague worry rises from the back of Castiel's mind as he remembers Nick warning him to stick to public places for his own safety. Could he be in danger here?

He looks around, trying to ascertain whether anyone is following him. He thinks he catches a flash of something just around the corner of the path behind him, but when he looks again, there’s no one.

Feeling calmer, Castiel closes the rest of the distance to the rocky ledge overlooking the ocean. The incline leading to the water is gentle here, but lined with jagged rocks. If he puts a foot wrong, he could easily slip and twist his ankle or, worse, fall and crack his head open.

As Castiel steps from one rock to the next and looks down at the whitecaps crashing into the shore below, he wonders whether anyone would truly care if he did fall. The thought tastes bitter on his tongue. If anything, an actual dead body would make this whole charade more convincing. And it’s not as though he has anyone waiting for him to come home.

He must not have been paying attention, too busy feeling sorry for himself, and his next step isn’t as sure as it needs to be. He hits the slippery rock in front of him at an odd angle, his foot sliding out from under him, and he almost tumbles face first into the edge of a particularly sharp rock.

But he doesn’t. Because there is a warm, strong hand gripping at his arm.

Heart hammering in his chest, Castiel turns to find a pair of wide, green eyes looking at him. He returns the look, not daring to move, unsure whether the man is here to push him down the cliff or pull him to safety.

Finally, the man's eyes flicker to the view behind Castiel, and they grow impossibly wider. His hand tightens almost painfully on Castiel’s arm, and he takes a deliberate step back from the edge, pulling Castiel along with him.

In lieu of a greeting, the man drops Castiel’s arm and scowls at him. “What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, walking that close to the edge?” The man’s voice shakes with anger, but his wild eyes and panting breaths speak of fear.

“Who… who are you?” Castiel finds himself asking. His hand twitches at his side, strangely compelled to reach out to the man and steady him.

The man looks vaguely surprised, as though he hadn’t really expected Castiel to speak to him. Slowly, fear and anger slide off his face, leaving only a careful, blank neutrality. He mumbles something, so quietly that Castiel doesn’t hear him over the sound of the wind in his ears.

“What?”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” the man shouts, considerably louder and more than a little irritated.

Castiel decides to go on the offensive. “Are you Dean Winchester?”

The man gapes at him in open dismay, lips parted. Clearing his throat, he says, “How do you know my name?”

Castiel shrugs. “Nick said you’d be following me around.”

“Huh.” The man, Dean, looks down at his boots for a moment, then says, “You and your brother have a weird relationship.”

Castiel snorts. “That’s the definition of an understatement.” He’s delighted to see one of the corners of Dean’s mouth quirk up in response.

Dean had been handsome in the low lights at Ernie’s, but he’s stunning in the light of day. His nose is dusted with freckles, and the faint rays of sun edging through the clouds outline his hair in a soft, golden glow. Deep, tired lines are grooved into the corners of his eyes, and Castiel feels an insane desire to smooth them out with his thumb. Instead, he digs his fingernails into his palm.

“So…” Castiel says, feeling his way back onto safe ground. “My brother hired you to keep an eye on me.”

Dean nods. “Probably doesn’t feel great, having some random stranger follow you around. It’s just… I kind of needed the paycheck.”

Looking angry with himself, Dean bites down on his lower lip, as though he’s revealed more than he meant to. Castiel shrugs. “There’s no shame in that. My brother’s the one with the family money, not me.” 

“Really?” Dean raises an eyebrow at him, looking interested in spite of himself. “What do you do?”

“I’m an accountant,” Castiel says, and sits down on one of the flatter rocks nearby. It has a nice view of the cliffs and the ocean below, but it’s far enough from the edge to be safe.

“An accountant,” Dean says flatly. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Not my first choice of profession, but it’s the degree my father agreed to pay for. And I don’t mind the work.”

Castiel inclines his head at the rock next to him, inviting Dean to sit. He’s still not entirely sure he should be talking to Dean at all, but they do seem to be talking already, so they might as well be comfortable.

Dean looks back and forth between Castiel and the ocean view behind him and shakes his head. In fact, he takes another step back before he says, “Guess that explains the coat.”

Castiel squints at Dean in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Not sure anyone other than accountants wears trench coats anymore.” Dean frowns, considering. “Maybe flashers.”

“Excuse me?” Castiel tries to sound annoyed, but the question comes out amused instead. Dean chuckles, but stops to hunch his shoulders when an especially strong gust of wind blows through. Castiel can’t help but notice that despite Dean’s objections to his coat, it seems to be doing a better job of keeping him warm than Dean’s thin canvas jacket, and he says so.

Dean shrugs in vague acknowledgement, then looks back the way they came, away from the ocean.

“Hey, want to go grab a cup of coffee or something? Since you already know I’m tailing you, seems like we might as well hang out for a while.”

Castiel knows he shouldn’t. At most, he has a couple of days left of playing Jimmy. After that, he’s going to go back to his life, and he’ll never see Dean again.

But a couple of days is better than nothing, isn’t it? Castiel watches as Dean’s eyes crinkle with a small, hopeful smile that barely reaches his lips.

“That sounds good,” he hears himself say.

Dean stretches out a hand to help Castiel up, and Castiel takes it, finding himself inches from Dean’s face when he straightens. They’re almost the same height, and their eyes meet across the negligible distance between them.

Dean’s eyes drop to Castiel’s lips, and Castiel wants nothing more than to lean forward.

Before he can, Dean turns and walks back along the path that leads to the parking lot. With a last glance back at the ocean, Castiel follows.

***

They end up driving about five miles down the road, to a small diner just off Route 1. A tired-looking waitress brings them coffee, looking a little put out when it becomes apparent they aren’t going to be ordering any food.

After she leaves, Dean takes a moment to glance over at Jimmy, drinking him in. Close up like this, his eyes are an almost otherworldly, electric blue. Dean’s trying hard not to stare, but he can’t find anything more interesting to look at either.

Desperate for something to talk about, he lands on the worst possible topic.

“You weren’t gonna jump, were you?”

Jimmy’s head shoots up from where he’d been focused on adding sugar to his coffee. “Jump off the cliff?” he asks, eyebrows raised, like it’s the most ridiculous idea he’s ever heard.

Dean nods.

“No, I wasn’t planning on it. I just put a foot wrong, that’s all.”

Again, that sense of pieces not quite fitting together scratches at the back of Dean’s mind. Nick had seemed so sure his brother was unstable, a suicide risk even. Dean can’t seem to square that impression with the rumpled but eminently sane man across from him, who’s squinting at him in vague confusion. “Why would you think I was trying to jump?”

Dean rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. Apparently, Nick’s told Jimmy that Dean is keeping an eye on him, but not that he’s there to keep him from hurting himself. Whatever strange dynamic is playing out between Nick and Jimmy, Dean’s not sure he’s better off for getting involved. In the end, he decides to just change the subject. “No reason. Hey, couldn’t help but notice you’re driving a crappy Continental. Guess you weren’t kidding about not having the family money.”

Jimmy looks profoundly offended. “You think it’s crappy? I love that car.”

Dean can’t help it; he chuckles. “Eye of the beholder, I guess.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jimmy says, with supreme dignity, around the rim of his coffee mug, “but your car is at least a decade older than mine.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth three times before he can form actual words past his outrage. “Dude, you do _not_ talk that way about my Baby. She’s not old. She’s a mature lady.”

Jimmy snorts so hard, a bit of coffee spills from his mug and onto the tabletop. “My apologies,” he says, eyes sparkling as he grabs a napkin to mop up. “I didn’t realize your relationship with, uh, _her_ was so intimate.”

“Screw you,” Dean says and hides his face behind his mug, because his mouth is definitely twitching a little. He’s feeling lighter than he has in months. Before he can think too much about it, he says, “Aren’t you protective of your lady? If you’ve got one, I mean.”

Those blue eyes fix him across the table, scanning his face. Finally, Jimmy says, “I don’t have _any_ ladies, generally.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, apparently considering something. “They’re usually gentlemen.”

Dean feels a strange thrum all through his gut, and the lightness in his chest kicks up another notch. This is a supremely bad idea, and getting far too close to flirting, but Dean’s never claimed to be that smart, so he winks at Jimmy and says, “Well, _I’m_ very protective of my gentlemen too.”

Jimmy blushes and changes the subject, but somehow, another hour passes and they're still sitting in the booth, sharing likes and dislikes, getting to know each other better.

Eventually, the waitress’ death glare gets too much and they leave, but Dean blows her a kiss on the way out, just to be an ass.

By the time they get to the parking lot, Dean’s doubled over laughing, and Jimmy’s right there with him, chuckling and shaking his head. When Dean straightens up, it’s to find Jimmy staring at him again, and it’s all he can do not to squirm under that intense blue scrutiny.

“Well, um, this is me,” Dean says, pointlessly, as he sidles up to the driver’s side door of the Impala.

Jimmy smiles, shy and beautiful. “And that’s me,” he says, pointing over his shoulder at his monstrosity. “But you knew that.”

Dean nods, shuffling his feet. “Well, um, I’ll see you around. You know, tomorrow.”

Jimmy turns to go, and before Dean can stop himself, he says, “Maybe we could hang out again? You know, just sort of run into each other, but without the part where I have to save your ass first?”

Jimmy looks thoughtful for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, something dark and distant rippling across his face.

“I’d like that,” he says eventually, and turns on his heel, leaving Dean to stare after him.

*** 

The Japanese Tea Garden has always been one of Castiel’s favorite places in San Francisco. It’s a beautiful, quiet spot set in the middle of the botanical gardens, a world away from downtown and the constant thrum of tension permeating the Novak home.

When Castiel still lived at home, he’d come here whenever he felt overwhelmed and just sit, enjoying the tranquil lake, the soaring pagodas, the carefully trimmed greenery.

Castiel has rarely felt more overwhelmed in his life than he does these days, so paying a visit to the garden seemed like a logical thing to do. It helps that the day is warm and sunny, but with just enough crispness in the air to make it pleasant. As Castiel walks along the paths of the garden, its spell takes over, and he eventually settles down on a bench near the lake, closing his eyes and letting the illusion of safety lull him.

He flinches when the bench creaks under the added weight of a second person, and opens his eyes to find Dean, offering him a shy smile and a to-go cup.

“Coffee,” Dean explains, in response to Castiel’s raised eyebrow. “Noticed you took it black yesterday, so that’s what this is. If you got any complaints, _you_ can get the coffee next time.”

Dean’s voice is gruff, but his eyes are warm and kind, and Castiel smiles at him. “Thank you, Dean. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No,” Dean agrees, “but I wanted to.” He turns to take in the greenery around them, and its reflection in the clear, still water of the lake. “This place is nice. Not sure I’ve ever been here before.”

“You don’t live in the city?” Castiel asks, not sure if he’s supposed to know these personal details about Dean, but wanting to find out anyway.

Dean huffs. “No, I do. Less than two miles from here. Richmond District.”

“You’re joking.”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, letting the look linger for just a moment too long to be casual. “Nah. You know how you never go see the sights that are really close to where you live? ‘Cause you think there’ll always be more time to get around to it, later.” Dean frowns, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Until you run out of time.”

Even as he wonders what in the world he’s doing, Castiel reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s arm where it’s resting on top of his thigh. Dean looks down at Castiel’s hand, then back up at his face, seeming flustered.

Castiel gives Dean’s arm a slight squeeze, then withdraws his hand.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger, for a place to be by myself and think,” Castiel says, watching a duck paddle lazy circles across the water. “Or sometimes I’d walk over from Haight-Ashbury if I’d smoked too much and needed time to sober up before going home.”

Dean tenses next to him and bites his lip. His voice sounds a lot less cheerful than before when he finally says, “The Haight, huh? Didn’t peg you for a hippie, Jimmy.”

Castiel’s brain stalls briefly at the use of his brother’s name. But really, he supposes Nick had no reason to tell Dean Castiel’s real name. Dean is likely defaulting to “Jimmy” because he doesn’t know what else to call the man in front of him. It shouldn’t bother Castiel. It shouldn’t.

Eventually, Castiel realizes he still hasn’t responded, and Dean is now looking at him with some confusion. He clears his throat and says, “Not a hippie, no. But going to The Haight and smoking up with people every once in a while was as much of a rebellion as I allowed myself. Back then, anyway.” Something about Dean still looks off, and Castiel feels strangely compelled to fill the silence between them. “Also, I found that the... accepting nature of the people there helped me in trying to come to terms with who I was.”

Dean fidgets, picking at the insulator sleeve on his cup. “Gay, you mean?” 

A slight blush spreads over Dean’s face as he pushes the word out, and Castiel smiles, surprised. “Yes. Aren’t you? I mean, I thought, after what you said…”

“Bi,” Dean says, the information tumbling out of him with the speed of nervousness. “I’m bi.”

Castiel nods, instinct telling him that Dean isn’t done talking. His instinct proves him right.

“I… I prefer men though,” Dean says quietly.

“It’s a shame you never spent time in The Haight,” Castiel finds himself saying, once again wondering why on earth his mouth is running away with him. “I would have liked to meet you.”

Dean’s blush deepens. “I _would_ go there, sometimes, but I’d mostly go to the record stores, then head out again. Never went to The Castro much either. I’m not really a ‘gay scene’ kind of guy.”

“Me either,” Castiel says, noticing that, over the past few minutes, they’ve instinctively angled their bodies toward each other on the bench. “Not these days, at least. I don’t even like being in the city anymore. I prefer my little house by the beach.”

Dean frowns, looking vaguely confused, and Castiel wonders whether he’s sharing too much about himself. But after a moment, Dean smiles, waggling his empty coffee cup at Castiel. “All gone. Where to next, Jimmy?”

Castiel once again barely suppresses a flinch at the name as he rises from the bench. “I don’t have any plans. Show me the record stores you like?”

Dean’s face splits with the brightest smile Castiel has seen on it yet, and his heart swells in response. A nagging voice at the back of his head reminds Castiel that he doesn’t have more than a few days to get to know Dean, before they’re forced to go their separate ways. He pushes it aside and puts his hand on Dean’s lower back, steering him onto the path that will lead them back out of the garden. 

*** 

They stroll east through the botanical gardens in the warm afternoon light, shoulders bumping occasionally as they walk. When they leave the green space behind to cross Stanyan and turn onto Haight Street, the slowly lowering sun hits the top of Jimmy’s head just right, illuminating his hair until it looks almost golden. Dean finds himself wondering what Jimmy would look like with dark hair. Something about his tan skin and the coloring of his stubble, seen up close, suggests he might not be a natural blond. Blond or dark, Dean thinks it would feel good to run his fingers through that hair. He just barely squashes the impulse to do it right then.

It’s not long before they get to the first record store, and they spend a good half hour browsing the vinyl, Dean making good use of all the pointless trivia he knows about classic rock guitarists. At least, Sam always calls it pointless, but it seems to entertain Jimmy, whose deep, rumbling laugh Dean hears a lot that afternoon.

Dean almost argues himself out of buying a vintage edition of _Houses of the Holy_ , but Jimmy very firmly takes it out of his hand and carries it to the cash register. When Dean tries to argue, Jimmy says, “You bought me coffee,” like that’s the end of the discussion, or like the two are somehow equivalent.

When they leave the store, Dean’s stomach reminds him pretty insistently that it’s dinner time, and when he inclines his head in the direction of the Magnolia brewpub, Jimmy shrugs and says, “Sure, why not.”

They have a beer each and a couple of burgers, and Dean remembers that when he went to restaurants back in his SFPD days, he used to like to make up stories about all the other people there. When he tells Jimmy, it occurs to him that the last person he did this with was Benny, but the memory doesn’t sting as much as it should.

“What about him, over there?” Jimmy asks, a small smile in one corner of his lips, nodding somewhere to Dean’s right. Dean turns carefully to look, and spots a guy with a greasy man bun and a giant pair of ear gauges.

“He’s J.D. Salinger.”

Jimmy snorts into the pint glass he just picked up to take another sip. “J.D. Salinger died ten years ago.”

Dean raises a challenging eyebrow at Jimmy. “He couldn’t have, because he’s sitting right there.”

Jimmy grins, big and bright, and finally takes that sip. As soon as his glass hits the table again, he looks around for the next candidate, finally nodding in the direction of a middle-aged woman with flaming red hair and a Grumpy Cat t-shirt.

Without missing a beat, Dean says, “Shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

Jimmy squints at him across the table. “That seems a little dark.”

“Dude.” Dean has the self-control to swallow down his bite of burger before he stares at Jimmy open-mouthed, but it’s a near thing. “Johnny Cash. It’s a Johnny Cash lyric.”

Jimmy winces. “Sorry. My parents never had much appreciation for popular culture, so a lot of those kinds of references go straight over my head.”

Dean’s only had one beer, but he feels light and reckless just sharing a table with Jimmy, and he says, “If you ever, you know, wanted to come over to my place, we could do a movie night or something.”

Jimmy freezes with a fry halfway to his mouth, and Dean would find it funny if it wasn’t for the sudden expression of distress on the other man’s face. “I… Dean, I don’t know if we should…”

“No,” Dean says, words hurrying out of his mouth so quickly he can barely keep up. “No, ‘course not. No, you’re right. Stupid idea. Just, um.” Dean swallows around a suddenly dry throat. “What if I wasn’t paid to follow you around anymore?”

Those wide, blue eyes lock with his and swallow him whole. There’s so much written between the lines of Jimmy’s look at this moment that Dean doesn’t think he could parse it in a year. Top-most, he’s almost sure, there’s a little spark of hope. But before Dean can grab that spark and hold on to it, it’s dragged under, replaced by the old, familiar sadness.

“It’s late, Dean,” Jimmy says. “I should go.”

Dean nods and calls for the check. They argue back and forth about whose turn it is to pay, but there’s no real heat to it. They agree to an even split in the end, and then they head out into the night.

Now that the sun is down, the air has taken on a definite chill, but Haight Street is a busy, colorful place even after dark, so the fact that they’re not talking isn’t really noticeable.

But then they hang left onto Frederick Street, strolling to the small lot where Jimmy parked his car and Dean pulled in right next to him a minute later, not even bothering with stealth anymore. Suddenly, the silence rises between them like a wall.

They stand awkwardly, wondering what to do next. A sneering voice in the back of Dean’s head tells him that Jimmy obviously isn’t interested in making anything more of this thing between them. Not even if the pesky “my brother is paying you to keep tabs on me” element was taken off the board. 

That voice shuts up pretty quickly when Jimmy takes a step toward him. He leans forward, taking hold of one of Dean’s hands and pressing a tender, lingering kiss to his lips. “Good night, Dean,” he says quietly.

With a final squeeze of his hand, Jimmy turns and slides into the front seat of the Continental.

Dean doesn’t say a thing. Instead, he stares at the car’s taillights as they pull out of the parking lot and off to the right, going east toward downtown.

When his limbs finally connect back to his brain, he stumbles into the Impala and pulls out his phone, dialing Nick Novak’s number before he can change his mind. On the third ring, a sharp voice rings out from the speaker. “Dean? Is my brother alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat and summoning as much determination into his voice as he can muster. “Jimmy’s fine. I called to tell you I don’t want the job anymore.”

There’s a sharp exhale at the other end of the line. “Dean, I thought I could rely on you. My brother needs constant supervision, and I simply don’t have the time to find somebody else before tomorrow morning.”

“No, but I’m telling you,” Dean interrupts, far past caring about being rude to Nick Novak, “I don’t think he really—”

“I’m willing to meet you halfway here, Dean,” Nick hisses, with barely concealed impatience. “You do this job for one more day while I try to find someone else. After that, you’re off the hook. Deal?”

Dean thinks one day is a pretty damn short time to find another private investigator, but he knows a gift horse when he sees one. “Deal.”

With that, the line goes dead.

***

When Castiel walks through the front door of the Novak penthouse, he’s profoundly grateful to find that Nick and Anael don’t seem to be home. They frequently spend their evenings at one charity function or another, so it’s not unusual for Castiel to have the place to himself. It’s yet another reminder of his childhood, when he was often alone here. It was either that or being constantly chastised for racing cars on the gleaming wooden floors and sitting on chairs that he wasn’t supposed to sit on. (What is the point of a chair, he thinks to this day, if you can’t sit on it?)

Castiel hangs his coat in the hall closet and toes off his scuffed dress shoes, placing them neatly on the rack next to Nick’s gleaming Italian leather loafers. He strolls down the corridor to his room, past the ostentatious family portraits in gilded frames, tugging on his tie and pointedly not looking at the painting of him and Jimmy, their small bodies framing a terrier his parents had rented to play the part of a family pet they never got to have.

When Castiel reaches his bedroom, he pulls out his phone and checks his notifications. He has a new text from Nick.

As Castiel reads, he remembers the feeling of Dean’s soft, plump lips underneath his own, and the warmth of their fingers, tangled together. 

Nick has written no more than three words, but it’s all he needed to get his message across. Castiel locks his phone and tosses it onto the bedspread, trying and failing to block out the sound of Dean’s easy, rumbling laugh echoing in his mind.

Even as he pulls off the rest of his clothes and climbs into bed, the words remain burned into his retinas, taunting him.

_Do it tomorrow._

*** 

For once, Dean feels good about the day ahead.

After he called Nick last night, he drove home and gave Sam a call to apologize for behaving like a jackass, again. Sam admitted that maybe their dinner going sideways had been a little bit his fault too, and they laughed it off and spent the next half hour catching up and reminiscing in a way they haven’t done for longer than Dean likes to remember.

Jimmy’s name never came up, but it was always there, just at the edge of Dean’s consciousness. He wasn’t ready to tell Sam yet about giving up the Novak job, and why he’d done it. This whole thing, whatever it was, was still so new, Dean thought to himself. For now, he wanted it to belong just to him and Jimmy.

After Dean hung up the phone with Sam, he called Lisa, feeling the need to clear the air with her too. She was sweet as always, and insisted he had nothing to feel guilty about. Which was just another reminder that Lisa was much too kind to spend so much of her time with a screw-up like Dean, but for once, he decided to just let it be and not get into an argument with life for giving him a good friend.

All that done, Dean had felt pretty damn good about himself. Usually, he would have downed a couple of shots of whiskey to help him go to sleep, maybe jerked off to work out some tension. 

For once, it just didn’t seem necessary.

He went to sleep thinking about a soft kiss in the dark and a pair of blue eyes looking at him across a bench in a nice, quiet garden.

Now he’s camped out in front of the Novaks’ apartment building again, for what he really, sincerely hopes is the final time.

Jimmy emerges at about 10, and Dean can tell from all the way across the street that his hair’s even more of a mess than usual. Dean wonders if he’s brave enough to drop the last part of this stupid charade and just invite Jimmy to ride in the Impala with him, but he figures since it’s his last day on the job, he might as well try to be professional. With any luck, there’ll be plenty of time to drive with Jimmy on the bench seat next to him, after today. The thought makes something lift inside him, and he whistles tunelessly as he peels out of his parking space to follow Jimmy’s Continental down the street.

Jimmy heads west for a little while, back in the direction of Haight-Ashbury and the botanical gardens, and Dean thinks he wouldn’t mind going for another walk around the neighborhood, just the two of them. But then Jimmy hangs right to head north, in the direction of the Presidio.

Dean frowns as they cross the Golden Gate Bridge, heading out of the city. After another couple of minutes, the Continental pulls off Route 101 and heads west again, aiming for the coast. Eventually, the pavement on the small side roads ends, giving way to gravel. With every tiny rock that hits Baby’s underside, Dean flinches a little.

In the distance, perched on the very edge of a steep cliff, he can see a lighthouse, getting closer.

***

Castiel’s hands shake on the steering wheel of the Continental as he pulls up on the gravel lot at Point Bonita.

After Amelia jumped to her death here, Castiel's father bought the lighthouse and closed it to the public. So the place is deserted now, as it has been for years. The beacon itself is squat and rusty, sitting next to a keeper’s cottage whose off-white paint job is peeling and whose windows are nailed shut with plywood slats. Surrounding both buildings is a viewing platform that looks out over a precipitous drop. Dark, jagged rock meets the churning sea some 80 feet below. The only way to get to the lighthouse is along a narrow, floating bridge that spans the gap between the coastline and the tiny land mass — more rock than island — where the small tower points accusingly toward a slate-grey sky. Even now, the bridge sways a little in the wind, nothing but a low guardrail shielding unwary visitors from a nasty fall.

Castiel emerges from his car and breathes in the sea air, forcing down a wave of nausea. This is it. He’s almost there. All he needs to do is head to the viewing platform and wait for Dean to arrive. Then, leave his coat behind and head into the keeper’s cottage. Climb down the stairs hidden under a trap door there.

The stairs, Nick told him, lead straight to a forgotten path by the water, where Castiel will be able to get away unseen. He’ll hike a mile along the path to the rendezvous point. Nick’s car will be picking him up there, ready to drive him back to his peaceful little beach house. Nick has promised Castiel that his own car will be returned to him as soon as the police have finished their investigation.

Castiel breathes once more — in, out, in, out. Behind him, the low rumble of Dean’s Impala breaks the silence, and Castiel starts walking in the direction of the lighthouse.

He’s almost reached the bridge when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey.” When Castiel turns, there’s a smile on Dean’s face, but it looks crooked, uncertain. “What’re we doing here?”

Castiel takes in Dean’s expression: the wide eyes, the faint tremor in his hand. He thinks back to their last time at the coast, at Cypress Point. Dean looked the same then as he does now.

Dean is afraid.

Castiel wills his brain to slot the pieces of this puzzle into place, but none of it fits. He is following Nick’s plan exactly. Dean is a party to Nick’s plan. Why is Dean afraid? “You _know_ what,” Castiel says, raising his voice to be heard above the wind, which is picking up. It’s tearing at his coat and making the bridge at his back creak, a reminder of where he needs to be going.

Castiel takes that reminder as a sign and tries to keep walking. Once again, Dean’s hand sinks onto his shoulder, warm and heavy, and spins him around.

“If…” Dean swallows heavily. “If I let you go over there, are you gonna come back?”

A thought forms at the back of Castiel’s mind, small and tentative. It grows, blackens and fills him up until he thinks he’ll choke on the horror of it. What if Dean _doesn’t_ know about Nick’s plan? What if he really believes Castiel to be Jimmy? Another piece that didn’t fit comes back to him. At the diner, out near Cypress Point, Dean had asked whether Castiel had been planning to jump off the cliff. What if Dean thinks there is a real danger he’s about to be a witness to suicide?

Castiel finds that he _has_ to know. Eyes meeting Dean’s and boring into them with the need to read his thoughts, Castiel asks, “Dean… you know none of this has been real, right?”

Dean looks as though he’s been slapped. His hand drops off Castiel’s shoulder, leaving it cold. His mouth starts moving, but the words don’t make it past his lips. 

Castiel takes a step forward, wanting to put a steadying hand on Dean’s arm.

Dean steps back.

Castiel looks back and forth between Dean and the lighthouse. A stray beam of sunlight catches the gleaming metal roof, creating an illusion of flames licking across the smooth surface. He thinks back to the painting at the Legion of Honor, flames tormenting a man who is reaching for his angel. A man who, in the funhouse mirror of Castiel's memory, looks an awful lot like Jimmy.

His mother’s voice whispers in his ear, _I want you to be my angel, Castiel. You find a person who deserves to be saved, and you save them. You do whatever it takes._

“Jimmy?” Dean’s voice is tentative, questioning, searching for a man he never knew. And that’s what decides Castiel — the knowledge that this was never about him, about what he wants or deserves. This is about Jimmy.

Without another glance at Dean, Castiel takes off at a run, heading for the bridge. Before he can worry about the stability of the structure, he’s across and heading to the end of the viewing platform. The part that faces the open ocean.

He glances back and sees Dean, standing at the other side of the bridge, one hand on the guardrail. He is frozen there, looking at Castiel and calling, with increasing desperation, someone else’s name.

Before he can second-guess himself, Castiel takes another step, out of Dean’s line of sight. He shucks his coat and discards it on the floor of the platform. Perhaps it’s far-fetched to think that a man about to jump to his death would bother to take off his coat. But there won’t be a body to prove the fact of Jimmy’s death, which, according to Nick, makes the coat a necessary risk. It will be something physical that Nick and Dean can point to at the inquest and say, _Yes, this belonged to Jimmy. It’s proof that he was there._

Castiel can always buy another coat.

Dean’s voice still ringing in his ears, Castiel walks toward the door of the keeper’s cottage. It will be unlocked, Nick had said. Perhaps, Castiel thinks, as he pushes at the reluctant metal and enters the small structure, he can call Dean, after all this blows over. Explain himself.

Castiel’s thoughts stop short when he realizes he’s not alone in the dim, dusty interior of the cottage.

A man’s silhouette is outlined against the barest hint of sunlight coming through the wooden slats covering the windows.

Nick.

“What…” Castiel’s voice is scraped raw, and he clears his throat in a futile attempt to get it to function. “What are you doing here?”

Nick spins to face him, sharp teeth glinting even in the semi-darkness. “Had to see how the grand finale of our plan turned out, didn’t I, little brother?”

Nausea crawls up Castiel’s throat. In the distance, he can still hear Dean shouting Jimmy’s name. “Nick, what… what did you tell him?”

The glint of Nick’s teeth is swallowed up by the shadows of the room as his mouth clams into a razor-thin line. “Who, Winchester? Told him to keep an eye on my no-good, suicidal addict brother Jimmy.” Something cold grips Castiel’s insides and twists. He wants to punch Nick, to scream at him, but his body won’t obey him.

“The guy called me last night, for some reason.” Nick’s voice is faintly amused. “Wanted to get out of the job. I told him, one more day. Figured it was enough to finish this.”

Nick turns his face to a small gap in the slats of the window that faces the bridge. Without conscious thought, Castiel walks to stand next to his brother.

Dean is making his slow, unsteady way across the bridge, the swaying of his body visible even at this distance. His head is bowed down, eyes fixed on the boards under his feet, away from the gaping precipice surrounding him on all sides.

He’s almost halfway across.

“Did you know,” Nick says calmly, as though he’s sharing a vaguely interesting piece of trivia, “that Dean here has an issue with heights?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but Nick continues, unmoved. “Yeah, one of my contacts at the PD told me. Was in some kind of accident. His partner fell to his death, trying to save him. To be honest, I’m amazed he’s made it onto the bridge at all.”

“Is that why you hired him?” Castiel’s voice struggles up his throat like a razor-clawed animal, slashing and tearing at him. Nick keeps watching Dean, his silence as good as confirmation. Castiel can feel himself shaking, his body and soul splitting apart at the seams. “Why, Nick?”

Nick shrugs. “Plausible deniability. Dean couldn’t save poor Jimmy from jumping to his death if he couldn’t make it across the bridge. And if Dean thinks our baby brother really is dead, he’ll make a much better witness at the inquest, don’t you think?”

Castiel tells himself that he didn’t know. He had no idea that Dean was just another pawn, another transaction moved into place to suit one of Nick’s schemes.

He didn’t know, but he’s still guilty. If he had kept his distance, stayed away from Dean like he was supposed to, Nick’s cruelty wouldn’t have done nearly as much damage as it will now.

“I’m going to tell him. I’m ending this right now.” Castiel turns to go, but for the third time that day, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Nick’s touch is nothing like Dean’s. It’s a vise, squeezing into Castiel’s flesh hard enough to leave a mark.

“You’ll do no such thing, Cas,” Nick says calmly. “Jimmy is safe, thanks to you. Are you really going to risk his life over a pretty face?”

Castiel turns back to the window, hating himself and hating the entire universe for making him face an impossible choice: his brother, or the man he could, given time, have loved.

He realizes suddenly that it isn’t really an impossible choice at all. If Castiel walks out of this cottage and tells Dean what Nick has done, there is no witness to Jimmy’s death, and the carefully built cover for his brother’s getaway will be in shambles.

If Castiel walks away now, it could cost Jimmy his life.

If he goes through with the plan all the way to the bitter end, Dean will be hurt, but he’s going to live. In time, he’ll find someone else. Someone real.

Dean doesn’t even know his name.

Castiel clings to that thought desperately as he watches Dean struggle to the end of the bridge, step by step. Dean is close enough for Castiel to see his face now. It’s twisted with panic.

“Jimmy? Jimmy! Where are you, man? Answer me!” Dean’s voice cracks as he keeps shouting. Castiel watches him walk around the lighthouse and past the cottage, green eyes fixed on something at the back of the platform.

The coat.

Castiel crosses the cottage, kicking up dust in the dim emptiness. There is another window on the opposite side, also nailed shut, but with a tiny gap for Castiel to peer through.

Dean is close enough that, if Castiel tore the wood off the window frame with his bare hands, he would be able to touch him.

His face stiff and pale, Dean bends down and picks up Castiel’s coat. He rolls it up slowly, tenderly, and cradles it to his chest.

As Dean’s shoulders begin to shake, Castiel feels Nick’s presence at his back, pushing at him, intruding on his heartbreak.

“Time to go,” Nick says through the screaming in Castiel’s head.

With a supreme effort of will, he tears his eyes off Dean and turns to find an open trapdoor and a spindly, circular staircase leading into bottomless darkness below.

Castiel walks to the trapdoor and follows Nick down.

The sounds of their descent are swallowed by the howling of the wind.

**END PART I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points frantically at "Angst With a Happy Ending" tag*
> 
> I promise things will get better for the boys, and soon. 
> 
> Next week: Following the events at Point Bonita Lighthouse, Dean and Castiel each try to move on with their lives. An inquest is held. Dean makes a discovery that changes everything he thought he knew about the Novak case.


	4. Chapter 4

**PART II**

Dean doesn’t remember how he got back across the bridge. He doesn’t remember getting into the Impala or driving home.

He does remember walking through the front door of his apartment, placing his keys on the kitchen counter with infinite care, then walking to his bathroom to throw up the meager contents of his stomach. When he straightens to rinse his mouth at the sink, Jimmy’s face looks back at him from the bathroom mirror.

Dean blinks, but Jimmy’s still there, staring, his face bloodied and broken. Dean blinks harder, and Jimmy’s face swells and distorts with decay, fleshless lips smiling, blue eyes flashing.

_ You know none of this has been real, right? _

Dean bites his lip until he tastes blood. Sam was right all along — you never know what’s going on inside a person’s head. No matter how much you think they might enjoy your company. No matter how much you want them to sit next to you, just sharing space and easy conversation, for as long as they’ll have you.

Dean tried to give Jimmy the only thing he had to offer — the mangled, bloody mess that passes for his heart — and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to make Jimmy want him. It wasn’t even enough to make him want to stay alive.

Dean figures this is how he’s being punished. For being given a delicate, beautiful gift like Lisa and squandering it. For missing his chance with Benny and getting him killed. And, worst of all, for betraying Benny’s memory by letting himself picture a future where he could have someone else by his side.

Dean’s breath comes in heaving, slicing gasps, lungs squeezing in his chest until he can’t get them to expand again, and he grips the edges of the sink, waiting for death in his own damn bathroom.

Yet, somehow, he doesn’t die. Instead, he closes the shades over every window and reaches into the kitchen cupboard, fingers curling around the comforting weight of a bottle of Jack.

Over the next week, he barely rises from the couch, except to go to the inquest. The presiding coroner gives a whole speech about how no one’s on trial and “we’re simply gathered here to establish the facts of the case.”

Then, he proceeds to put Dean on trial anyway. “Mr. Novak trusted Mr. Winchester to ensure the safety of his younger brother,” quickly followed by “Mr. Winchester failed to uphold the terms of his contract with Mr. Novak” and “Mr. Winchester never once disclosed his psychological difficulties.”

Dean sits there and takes it.

While the jury deliberates, Nick walks over, and Dean wonders distantly whether he’s about to be served papers for a lawsuit. Instead, Nick puts his hand on Dean’s arm, and Dean really wants to break every single one of his fingers.

He pretends to listen to Nick’s sanctimonious speech about how the coroner was out of line, how Dean did the best he could under the circumstances, and he’ll still be getting a check, “albeit a slightly reduced amount, I’m sure you understand.”

In the end, the jury returns a verdict of death by suicide.

With the case closed and no criminal to lock up, the police are free to discard or release the evidence. After spending most of the next day chewing his fingernails to the quick, Dean calls Sam and asks him to pull some strings to get Jimmy’s coat released to him. The family hasn’t come to claim it, Sam tells him, so it shouldn’t be a problem. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything else.

There’s a funeral, but Dean can’t bring himself to go. He’s not sure he’d be welcome anyway.

He goes back to sitting on his couch, empty bottles piling up around him in the dark and quiet of his apartment.

Two days after the inquest, Lisa shows up. She takes one look at him and asks, “When’s the last time you ate?”

Dean realizes he can’t remember, but he doesn’t want to admit that, so he says nothing. Lisa stays for a while and orders him dinner. She puts a bottle of water in front of him. She asks questions.

Dean says nothing.

Lisa and Sam apparently decided to tag-team, because his brother shows up the next day, opening all the shutters and pushing Dean into the shower. Dean goes through the motions of cleaning himself and pokes at the food Sam brought with him. Sam empties the rest of his booze into the sink before he leaves, so there’s nothing for it but to go out.

The fact that the liquor store is right next to the neglected office of Winchester Investigations is usually convenient. Today, it’s a nuisance, but Dean figures he might as well walk up the narrow, dim staircase anyway and check his desk phone for messages.

To his amazement, he has a couple of voicemails waiting for him. Somehow, despite the negative publicity from the inquest, people still want to hire Dean Winchester. Maybe they figure he’ll agree to work for cheap now.

The cases are all small-time stuff, mostly infidelity, but Dean knows the state of his bank account. No matter how desperately he wishes for the cold comfort of his apartment, he goes out and he works the cases. He puts in his time, lurking in the parking lots of seedy motels next to used-car dealerships, waiting for someone’s spouse to put a foot out of line.

Through it all, there’s a constant hum at the back of his mind. He’s still trying to make the pieces fit. The square peg of a quiet, sarcastic man with a disarming smile won’t slot into the round hole of the strung-out addict who jumped to his death.

Dean doesn’t know where to start, so he takes a trip down memory lane. He visits the flower store to look at the bouquets in the window. He goes to Mission Dolores and memorizes the grief-stricken expression on the face of Amelia Novak’s angel.

Every once in a while, on his way through the city, he startles at the sight of blue eyes passing him in the street. But it’s never a familiar face, and it’s never the right kind of blue.

A month after Jimmy’s death, Dean heads to the Legion of Honor. It’s another one of those places that are within a stone’s throw of his front door, but are barely familiar to him.

He remembers Jimmy coming here and sitting for hours in front of a painting of an angel. Something pulls Dean there now, an irresistible compulsion to shape that square peg into something that’s going to make sense and make that constant, nagging itch in the back of his mind go away.

It takes a while, but Dean eventually finds the painting again, in a small gallery at the back of the museum. He stares at the painting, willing it to speak to him. When it doesn’t, his eyes slide to the explanatory plaque to the right of the frame.

_ The Angel Castiel Raises a Righteous Man From Perdition _

_ Gold leaf and mineral paints on vellum _

_ Artist unknown _

Dean grits his jaw in frustration. He was an idiot to think that coming here would get him any answers.

_ You know none of this has been real, right? _

Dean drags himself away from the painting, forcing himself to face the fact that he never truly knew Jimmy. He doesn’t know what made him tick, or what made him leave Dean the way he did.

Dean couldn’t figure him out in life. He certainly won’t figure him out now.

***

Castiel has often felt lonely, but the loneliness has never felt this suffocating. Any comfort he once derived from the quiet sound of the ocean meeting the shore beneath his windows has been ripped away. All the sound does now is remind him of the lighthouse.

The naked hurt in Dean’s eyes when Castiel turned away from him to cross the bridge, his tenderness as he cradled Castiel’s coat — these memories are always at the back of his mind, startling him awake at night and taking his mind off his work during the day. He lets the routine wash over him with its mindlessness: meeting clients, filling out forms, responding to emails. He goes for walks through town and greets the people he meets.

He doesn’t go for walks on the beach anymore.

After a week, he reads in the paper that an inquest has been held in Jimmy’s case, and a verdict of suicide has been rendered. The thought doesn’t bring him as much comfort as he’d thought it would.

Castiel wonders what the experience was like for Dean. He wonders whether he talked to Nick, and whether Nick accepted Dean’s condolences for a death that never happened.

There is a funeral too, of course, even without a body to bury. It doesn’t seem wise for Castiel to attend. In any case, he doesn’t think he could face the travesty of Nick’s mourning.

When Castiel’s car is finally returned to him, a few days after the inquest, he finds that he can’t stand the sight of it. Dean was right, after all. The car’s beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, and he can’t see it anymore. All he sees when he looks at the Continental is a lovingly cared-for Chevy Impala, following him through the streets of San Francisco.

He drives to the used-car lot at the other end of town and trades the Continental for a Ford truck, model year 1987. It’s a little rusty and more than a little banged up, but Castiel has always liked old cars, and it looks like this one would do just fine if someone stuck around long enough to care for it. Castiel tries not to see it as a metaphor for himself.

As soon as he drives out of the lot, an awful thought occurs to him. If he wanted to drive to the city and see Dean now, he could. Dean won’t recognize this truck. Castiel could go, just once, and catch a glimpse, to reassure himself that Dean is alive, whole and moving on.

Castiel knows, rationally, that he has no right to see Dean, let alone try to contact him. Not after everything he’s done. Which doesn’t even take into account all the other reasons why he wasn’t going to see Dean ever again, and which are still valid too: the reasons that relate to Jimmy’s safety. After everything he and Dean have suffered on Jimmy’s behalf, it would be the height of stupidity to risk what they managed to achieve.

There has been no news from Jimmy, which Castiel thinks counts as good news. If Jimmy had been found by the people who wanted him dead, the family would have been notified. Just once, he calls Nick to ask whether there is any way for him to contact his little brother. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Nick says, almost managing to sound genuinely regretful. “You know it’s not safe. If Jimmy wants to be in touch at some point in the future, he knows how to reach you.”

Castiel’s resolve not to venture into the city finally cracks one foggy Saturday morning. The day stretches in front of him, empty of obligations, and a pair of green eyes sits at the back of his mind, waiting him out.

Before he can argue himself out of it, he types Dean’s name into his phone's search bar and finds the address for Winchester Investigations.

When he gets to the address, he sits and looks at the doorway of a nondescript commercial building, wedged between a liquor store and a Chinese restaurant. He waits for an hour — for what, he doesn’t know. It’s a weekend day, after all, and Dean is unlikely to be at his office.

Just as Castiel has convinced himself to start the car and drive back home, Dean walks around the corner of the block and stops at the entrance of Winchester Investigations. He unlocks the door and ducks inside.

Before Castiel can do something incredibly foolish like get out of the car, Dean comes back out, clutching a small stack of papers.

Briefly, Castiel lets himself daydream about going after him. It’s unlikely Dean would give him the time to explain. Even if he did, Dean would have questions that Castiel isn’t sure he has the answers to.

He wraps both hands firmly around the steering wheel and drives home.

***

It happens over a couple of beers one night, almost exactly three months after Jimmy’s death.

Sam’s come over to watch a movie, like he does a lot now. Neither of them acknowledge the fact that it’s because he doesn’t trust Dean to be alone with his thoughts for more than a couple of days.

“Castiel!” Sam says, expression bright and pleased.

Dean pauses  _ Die Hard _ and tries to jolt his brain into joining the conversation. “What?”

“Castiel,” Sam repeats, still grinning. “Knew I’d get it eventually.”

“Sammy, this is movie night and John McClane’s in the fight of his life. Tell me what the hell you’re talking about or shut up.”

“The other Novak brother,” Sam says, his grin sliding sideways into smugness. “The one who hasn’t been involved in the business for a while. Went off the grid years ago, I think. Told you I’d heard his name, and it was something weird. It just came to me, out of nowhere. ‘Castiel.’”

Something stirs at the back of Dean’s mind, in the place he reserves for the thoughts and recriminations that relate to blue eyes and messy blond hair. Castiel.

The angel Castiel.

Something springs into life inside him, gears whirring and dots connecting.

He starts up the movie again, ignoring Sam’s raised eyebrows. “Bathroom,” he mumbles and heads for his bedroom instead.

His laptop sits on his desk. Dean opens a browser window and, on a whim, types in “Castiel Novak.”

There are only a handful of results. The first is an old list of graduates published by a private school just outside the city.

The second is a news article that’s several decades old, part of the  _ San Francisco Chronicle _ ’s digitized archive. Dean clicks on it. It’s some fluff piece about the Novak family’s glamorous lifestyle, but it comes with a picture, and the picture comes with a caption:

_ James and Amelia Novak with their sons, (l-r) Nicholas, Michael, James Jr. and Castiel. _

The resolution on the picture is low and it looks blurry on Dean’s screen, but even so, two identical faces stare back at him. James Jr. and Castiel. Jimmy and Castiel. Looking exactly the same, but for one thing: Jimmy is blond and Castiel is dark.

Dean thinks about looking at Jimmy and realizing that, seen up close, his skin and the occasional 5 o’clock shadow seemed too dark for someone with fair hair. He thinks about the barely perceptible flinch every time he called Jimmy by his name.

Dean returns to the search engine and casts his mind back to what else Jimmy told him. What could be true? What could be true and also useful in getting to the bottom of this?

Accountant. He said he was an accountant.

Fingertips thrumming with tension, Dean types “Novak accountant.” When he hits enter, the top result is a page for something called “Novak CPA.” Dean clicks on the link, willing his hand not to shake.

The website is unremarkable, nothing but soothing primary colors and stock photos of disembodied hands filling out tax forms. Dean scans the bar at the top of the page until his eyes land on an “About Us” link.

When he clicks, there’s nothing but a single name and title — “C. Novak, Principal” — and a short biography. To the right of the text is a photograph of a man with dark hair and Jimmy’s face.

Dean pushes away from his desk, his breath coming in short, frantic pants.

He doesn’t know what it means. Not yet. Not really. But somewhere along the line, he was played, and someone is going to pay for it.

Another thought occurs to him. He presses his knuckles to his eyes until he sees stars, willing himself to remember.

After a minute, he digs through the mess on his desk until he finds a clean scrap of paper and a pen. He scrawls down a combination of letters and numbers and closes his eyes again, trying to picture that combination on the license plate of a crappy old Continental.

When he’s satisfied, he picks up the phone and calls Charlie. Charlie is SFPD’s tech guru, and she also happens to be one of Dean’s few remaining friends at the department. He hopes she still likes him enough to do him a favor.

“What’s up, bitch?”

The greeting is familiar and comfortable, but Dean’s impatient, and he doesn’t indulge her with any of their usual banter.

“Need you to run a plate for me.” When the line goes quiet for too long, he adds, “Please.”

“Why?” Charlie can ramble with the best of them, but she can also get straight to the point when she wants.

“I can’t tell you that.” An incredulous huff sounds in his ear. “But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know that.”

“I’ll do it on one condition,” she says, finally, all regal condescension.

“Anything.”

“Call me some time when you don’t need a favor.”

Dean nods; then, realizing Charlie can’t actually see him, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

He reads off the license plate number, and there’s the sound of typing. After barely two minutes, Charlie is back.

“The car’s registered to one Bill Johnson.”

Fuck. Could he really be wrong about this? Or did he misremember the plate number?

Thankfully, another possibility occurs to him.

“When was the car registered to him?”

More typing.

“Couple months ago.”

Dean’s practically giddy, the familiar thrill of closing in on the perp making his skin tingle. He’s missed it. “Who was it registered to before that?”

Charlie doesn’t say anything for a minute. It sounds like she’s drumming her fingers on her desk.

“Charlie, please? I know you can find out. I’ll definitely owe you one after this.”

“You owe me anyway,” she answers, but he recognizes the tone of resignation. Thirty seconds later, she says, “It was registered to someone called Castiel Novak.”

Dean’s insides clench, and he’s feeling so many things at once, he wouldn’t be able to sort them out if he had a lifetime to do it. “Got an address?”

“Last known address is in Muir Beach.”

Dean writes down the street address Charlie gives him below the plate number, clutching the pen so hard he’s amazed it doesn’t snap.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, and hangs up on her mid-sentence.

From the other room, Sam’s calling his name. “Hey, Dean! You alright in there?”

“Fine,” Dean yells back. More quietly, he tells the picture of Castiel Novak on his laptop screen, “You, on the other hand… jury’s still out.”

*** 

That night, Dean dreams.

He’s standing just outside the courtroom where the inquest was held, facing Nick Novak.

“You know none of this has been real, right?” Nick says in Jimmy’s voice.

When Dean blinks, it’s not Nick standing next to him at all, but Jimmy. He takes off his coat and wraps it around Dean’s shoulders.

“I’m an angel, did you know that?” Jimmy whispers into the space between them. “Angels don’t die when they fall. Angels can fly.”

The floor drops out from under Dean, and the last thing he sees as he loses his balance is Jimmy’s face, moving farther and farther away from him.

He lands on a bridge, the sounds of wind and sea roaring in his ears. Jimmy’s ahead of him on the viewing platform, looking out at the ocean. “Jimmy, no!” Dean wants to say, but the words stick in his throat.

At the speed of thought, he’s standing next to Jimmy, except his hair is dark now, and he’s not Jimmy anymore. He’s something powerful and ancient, something with wings as black as midnight, stretching out from his back and casting everything around them into shadow.

“Look, Dean,” the angel says, and he points out to sea. Dean turns, and the precipice opens below him, spinning and beckoning, waiting to swallow him.

A hand lands on his shoulder and pushes.

The platform railing disappears, and Dean falls. By some miracle, he manages to hold on, fingers clinging to the very edge of the concrete.

When he looks down, the ocean is gone. Instead, there’s nothing but a bottomless pit, flames climbing up the edges, licking at his skin.

When he looks up, the angel hovers above him, hand outstretched.

Fire singeing the bottoms of his feet, Dean reaches out, trying to grasp the tips of the angel’s fingers. The angel reaches for him in turn, but their hands never touch.

The angel loses his balance.

He falls.

Dean wakes in a tangle of sheets, cold sweat on the back of his neck.

A glance at his phone tells him it’s 4 a.m., but he knows he’s not going back to sleep that night. He makes a big pot of coffee and paces, planning his next move.

In the end, he doesn’t make much of a plan at all, other than to get behind the wheel of the Impala and drive. His gun is tucked into the waistband of his jeans, digging into his back. All through the city and across the bridge, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. 

This is the way he drove on that last day with Jimmy.

No. Not Jimmy, he reminds himself. Because if he’s certain of one thing now, it’s that he never actually met anyone by that name.

When he gets to the house, it’s a small beach bungalow, painted in pastel colors.

_ I prefer my little house by the beach. _

It’s low-slung and unassuming, but probably costs more than Dean makes in ten years, considering the location right at the edge of the ocean. So maybe this Castiel guy drives a crappy car, but he’s still a Novak at heart.

Dean doesn’t park in the driveway, not wanting to make his presence known right away and give Castiel a chance to duck out the back door. Instead, he stops about halfway down the block and sits with his thoughts for a minute. He didn’t see the Continental, but that’s to be expected if it’s registered to someone else now.

What he doesn’t know is how the hell he’s going to handle seeing Jimmy’s face again, after everything that’s happened. Will his hair still be blond, or is it back to its natural color by now? Should he bring the trench coat that’s resting, in a carefully folded bundle, at the bottom of his trunk?

Dean delivers himself a hard slap on the cheek. If he’s going to do this, he can’t be off his game. Painstakingly, brick by brick, he assembles a wall between his emotions and the muscles of his face.

The two-minute walk to the bungalow’s front door feels like a small eternity. Dean almost turns around twice. What’s the point, really, of torturing himself?

In the end, his need for answers and, if he’s completely honest, for revenge, wins out.

He walks up the driveway, ducking around a rusty old Ford truck, and knocks on the door.

Less than half a minute passes before the door is wrenched open, and Jimmy stands in the doorframe, hair dark, but just as tousled as Dean remembers, and eyes just as blue.

Those eyes widen, and pink lips part in complete dismay.

Dean puts every ounce of strength he possesses into making his voice come out steady.

“Castiel Novak?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger. I couldn't resist.
> 
> Next week: A gun. A feather boa. A plan to find Jimmy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter puts us officially past the halfway point!
> 
> I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has been kudosing, commenting on and reblogging this fic - you all have been so kind, and it's been incredibly encouraging for me. I really hope the second half of this story lives up to the first, and that at least some of you will keep sticking with me on future fic adventures. <3

“Castiel Novak?”

For a full ten seconds, Castiel doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He’s imagined many ways for Nick’s plan to go wrong and spent time considering how he would deal with each of them.

But Dean knocking on his door, months after the fact… there was never a contingency for this.

Perhaps he should pretend that Dean is a stranger to him. It’s possible Dean still isn’t aware that Jimmy’s death was faked. It could be he simply discovered the existence of another family member and wanted to… what?

“Why are you here?” Castiel says finally, his voice reduced to a mere croak. Whether or not Dean knows the whole truth, it seems like a reasonable-enough question to ask.

Dean hums, lips curving up in a razor-sharp smile. “Interesting conversation starter there, Cas.” His eyes flick up and down Castiel’s body in obvious challenge. “It’s alright if I call you Cas, isn’t it? I know I just met you, but, funny thing, it feels like we’ve known each other for ages.”

Castiel swallows, nods.

“Anyway, as I was saying, _Cas_.” Dean’s eyes narrow and he subtly widens his stance, almost like he’s bracing for an attack. “Interesting conversation starter. Seems like a more reasonable question to ask would be, ‘Who are you?’ If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t ask me that because you already know.”

Castiel could reach for his phone and try to call the police. He could slam the door in Dean’s face. But Dean is here, and Castiel knows he's at least partly responsible for the tightly controlled fury on Dean's face.

So Castiel steps aside and motions for Dean to come in.

Dean seems taken aback by Castiel’s invitation, but walks into the house, eyes darting into each corner, checking for traps. Apparently finding none for now, he walks over to Castiel’s small kitchen table and sits. Castiel turns to close the front door.

When he faces Dean again, there is a gun on the table. Dean’s hand isn’t touching it, but it’s close enough that he could pick it up at a moment’s notice.

Castiel pulls out a chair for himself, making sure to choose one that doesn’t face the business end of Dean’s weapon.

“Can I… offer you anything?”

Dean’s laugh is utterly mirthless. “Good for you, Cas. I respect a man who doesn’t panic at the sight of a firearm.”

Castiel swallows heavily, at a loss for how to even begin to explain himself.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he says, eventually, because that seems like the crucial point. “I didn’t know.”

Dean’s eyes narrow with suspicion, fingers flexing and curling on the tabletop. “What the hell do you mean, you didn’t know? Didn’t know what?”

“I thought you were part of Nick’s plan. I thought you knew what was going to happen. What was always meant to happen.” Castiel’s voice is shaky with the weight of the words. He pauses, swallows.

Dean’s eyes are fixed on the wood grain of the table. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Just so we’re understanding each other, I never actually met Jimmy, did I?”

Castiel shakes his head, watching as Dean’s shoulders sag almost imperceptibly. “Dean, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. On one condition.”

When Dean finally looks up, his lips are twisted in a snarl. “You think you’re in a position to negotiate?” He taps the grip of his gun for emphasis.

Castiel forces himself to maintain eye contact, hoping against hope that it'll help deescalate the situation. “I don’t think you’re actually going to shoot me. You want answers, and I can give them to you. Again, on one condition.”

“What’s your condition?” Dean asks finally, his features tight with cold calculation.

Unbidden, memories of Dean's cheerful laughter on a sunny afternoon in Haight-Ashbury rise to the surface of Castiel's mind, taunting him. He pushes them down. This is not the time to mourn what he's lost. “My condition is that you don’t tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you. I won’t let you or anyone else endanger Jimmy’s life.”

For the first time, Dean's firm control over his expression slips. He looks genuinely surprised. “What?”

“If what I’m about to tell you reaches the wrong people, they’ll come for my brother. Again. So promise me.” Castiel is surprised at the tone of command in his own voice, but it seems to have the desired effect on Dean. He’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair, the cold mask glued haphazardly onto his face cracking at the seams.

“Are you sure I can’t offer you a drink?” Castiel finds himself asking, just to break the tension. Without waiting for Dean’s nod, he heads over to the minibar next to the window, pulling two tumblers off the bottom shelf and filling each of them with two fingers of whiskey.

“I’m not a cop anymore,” Dean says as Castiel walks back to the table and pushes one of the glasses toward Dean. Dean drains it immediately, his eyes never leaving Castiel's. “But if you’re about to tell me that one of you Novaks hurt someone or killed them, I can’t commit to keeping that quiet.”

“I understand. It’s nothing like that.”

Dean nods. “Alright then. This can stay between us.” Spinning his empty glass between his fingers, Dean adds, “Doesn’t mean I trust you, though. Keeping this,” he inclines his head at his gun, “out for now, just in case.”

“That’s more than fair.”

Castiel sits and sips at his drink, trying to find his way into the story.

He begins with Nick’s phone call about Jimmy’s trouble. As he refills Dean's glass, he talks about the meeting at Nick’s office; the idea that Castiel would play the role of Jimmy and give his brother time to get away.

When he gets to Nick’s story about how Dean was hired to ensure Castiel’s safety and serve as a witness to suicide, Dean huffs and stalks to the minibar, pouring himself yet another drink. Castiel notes that the gun remains on the table. He wonders whether it’s a sign that Dean believes him, or a sign that the alcohol is starting to affect his judgment.

“That’s not the story Nick told _me_ ,” Dean says, back turned as he pours the amber liquid into his tumbler.

“Yes, I found that out… eventually.”

Dean’s head snaps up and he focuses on Castiel with amazing acuity, considering he's on his third shot of whiskey. “How?”

Castiel looks away. He finds that he doesn’t want to see Dean’s reaction to this next part of the story. “At the lighthouse… the plan was for me to head into the keeper’s cottage. There’s a staircase there. I was supposed to use it to get away and meet a car sent by Nick. Except when I got to the cottage… Nick was waiting for me.”

Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on anything except Dean, but he can’t help hearing the other man’s sharp intake of breath.

“I could tell you were… more distressed than seemed reasonable for someone who was in on the plan. I asked Nick about that. He said… he said he never told you the whole thing wasn’t real.”

“That’s what you meant,” Dean says, a strange edge to his voice that sounds almost like relief.

Startled out of his memories by the interruption, Castiel finally looks at Dean to find him standing next to the table, eyes blazing with almost unbearable intensity. “That’s what I meant by what?”

“When you said, ‘You know none of this has been real, right?’” Castiel can’t help tracing the movement of Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows heavily. “You were trying to ask if I knew about Jimmy’s death being a fake. You didn’t mean…”

Dean’s voice breaks slightly on the last word, and he flushes, turning away to pace Castiel’s living room, still cradling his drink.

The knowledge of how Dean must have interpreted his words suddenly jolts through Castiel with the force of a whip crack. “Oh, Dean, no… I didn’t mean…” Castiel’s every muscle screams at him to get up and go to Dean, to comfort him. But he doesn’t know how an attempt to touch would be received at this point, so he stays.

“It’s fine,” Dean murmurs. “Doesn’t matter.” Louder, he adds, “So, the keeper’s cottage. Bet you two had a nice laugh in there about Dean Winchester, gullible dumbass.”

“As soon as Nick said you didn’t know what was happening, I wanted to tell you, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice as quiet and level as he can make it. More than anything, he wants Dean to meet his eyes, but Dean has slumped onto the couch near the front door. He’s hunched forward, looking down at the floor as he runs his hands up and down his face with almost alarming force. “I really, really wanted to tell you, Dean. I was about to, but Nick reminded me what was at stake.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Castiel picks up his drink and walks over to the couch, taking care to leave a respectable distance between himself and Dean as he sits. “Jimmy is my brother, Dean. If this awful, cruel plan of Nick’s was the way to keep him alive and safe, then I… I had to go through with it.”

Tentatively, Castiel raises his hand, wanting to tether Dean with the reassurance of a physical connection. Halfway there, he falters as he takes in Dean’s face, all hard lines and jagged corners.

“You told me you have a little brother, too, Dean,” Castiel tries. “Can you understand why I’d be willing to do anything, anything at all, to keep him safe? Even if it hurts people that I… other people? Even if it hurts _me_?”

Ever so slowly, eyes still fixed on his boots, Dean nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. That’s why I took the job in the first place. I figured Nick was an asshole, but he was trying to look out for his little brother. I could relate to that.” Dean's conciliatory tone notwithstanding, when he turns to face Castiel, his eyes are hard as flint. “What I can’t figure out is why I should trust one Novak brother’s story more than the other’s.”

Castiel forces himself not to flinch. He has earned this. He deserves it.

“I called you Jimmy all the damn time,” Dean says, voice shaking with barely contained anger. “You expect me to believe you didn’t think that was even a little weird?”

“I thought maybe Nick didn’t tell you my real name so that you could honestly say you’d never met me, in case questions came up about my involvement. I thought you were calling me Jimmy for lack of a better alternative.” Castiel runs a hand through his hair. The habit usually calms him, but it doesn’t seem to be working this time. “It seems incredibly stupid in hindsight.”

When the impulse to reach for Dean comes again, Castiel forces himself to follow through, putting a feather-light hand on Dean’s forearm. Dean pulls away, and Castiel tries to swallow down the sinking feeling in his chest. “If you’d asked for my name, I would have told you.”

Dean shakes his head, eyes fixed on the opposite corner of the room. “How can I trust you, Cas? How can I trust a single thing that comes out of your mouth?”

“I understand that I’ve done nothing whatsoever to deserve your trust,” Castiel whispers, fingers clutching at his drink for support. “But if I can… is there anything at all I can say to help?”

For a small eternity, Dean doesn’t respond. Castiel forces himself to be patient as they sit in silence.

Eventually, his patience pays off.

“Tell me which parts were true,” Dean says, so quietly that Castiel has to strain to hear him.

In response to Castiel’s confused frown, Dean adds, “Of what you told me about yourself. Which parts were true?”

“Everything, Dean,” Castiel says, relieved to be asked a question that’s so very easy to answer. “Everything I told you about myself is true.”

“Figured you were playing the role,” Dean tells the bottom of his glass. “Telling me what I wanted to hear or some shit like that.”

Every one of Dean’s words is laced with an edge of hurt that slashes at Castiel’s insides.

“No. No, Dean, I promise you, everything I said. Everything… everything I _did_ was me. I meant it all.” _Especially the kiss_ , he wants to say.

When Castiel’s hand reaches out for Dean’s arm again, Dean lets it rest there.

“When I found out who you were, I figured you were trying to, I don’t know, lead me on.” Dean keeps his voice carefully steady, even as his eyes latch onto the point where Castiel is touching him. “Didn’t know if you were even into guys, you know?”

Castiel gets off the couch and walks to his bedroom, the weight of Dean’s gaze following him until he’s out of sight. He roots around his closet for no more than a few seconds, then walks back into the living room, clutching an old parade souvenir.

Castiel leans against the doorframe, facing Dean as he trails the rainbow-colored feather boa through his fingers. “Does this answer your question?”

For a beat, Dean’s face is motionless. Then he snorts, and Castiel lets a relieved laugh bubble up in his throat.

*** 

After the feather-boa incident, the mood shifts.

Dean reminds himself repeatedly that he shouldn’t be letting his guard down. He still doesn’t have any real evidence that the story Cas told him is any closer to the truth than what he got from Nick. He made a judgment call to swallow down his misgivings about the oldest Novak brother, and look where it got him.

The problem is this: he doesn’t _have_ any misgivings about Cas. No matter his name or the color of his hair, the guy is just as easy to talk to as he was when they first met. He should’ve trusted his instinctive dislike of Nick; stands to reason he should go with his gut on Cas, too.

Except there’s one very obvious question that’s still scratching at him.

“So… assuming I take your story at face value.” At the sound of Dean's voice, Cas looks up at him from next to the kitchen counter, where he’s studying a takeout menu on his phone. Because somehow, in the past twenty minutes, things have thawed enough between them that Cas suggested getting food delivered from a Chinese place he likes and Dean, incorrigible idiot that he is, agreed. “What you’re telling me is that Nick lied to me about pretty much everything.”

Cas tilts his head from side to side, like he’s weighing Dean’s point. “Not entirely. What he told you about Jimmy was mostly true. Nick has always been masterful at telling enough truth to hide the lie.”

“Then I gotta ask, Cas,” Dean says, leaning back to study the other man’s reaction. “What makes you think he didn’t lie to you too?”

For a long time, Cas keeps frowning down at his phone. Dean’s just about resigned himself to not getting an answer when those blue eyes, wide and earnest, meet his, and Cas says, “I chose to believe Nick’s story because I’m terrified of the alternative.”

“What alternative?” Dean asks, though really, he already knows the answer.

Cas walks back over to join Dean on the couch. He folds his hands in his lap and stares down at them like they hold the meaning of life itself.

“The alternative that my brother is dead and Nick was trying to cover it up.”

Cas’ voice is so thoroughly even and controlled, Dean knows it must be taking a superhuman effort to keep it that way. Without his permission, his hand reaches out to rest on Cas’ shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Hey,” Dean says, and he’s surprised at the unaccustomed note of tenderness in his own voice. “Let’s order some food, alright? We can talk about this later.”

Cas smiles at him, bright and grateful, and Dean tries hard to fight the answering smile edging onto his face, but it’s a losing battle.

When the food arrives, they sit around Cas’ table, surrounded by takeout containers. Dean’s gun has disappeared back into his waistband, replaced there right around the time Cas called the restaurant to put in their order. They give the issue of Jimmy a wide berth for now, talking instead about Dean’s job.

“Do you miss it? Being a cop?” Cas asks as he digs through a container of lo mein.

Dean shrugs, taking a bite of egg roll. “Sometimes. My brother and I joined the department pretty much right after high school. Followed in our dad’s footsteps. Our mom died when we were little, so he was basically our only role model.”

“He must have been proud.”

“He was.” Dean picks at the stuffing of the egg roll, coming up with a piece of chopped pork and popping it into his mouth. “Didn’t have long to enjoy it though. He was killed in the line of duty when I was twenty-five.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Cas says, eyes wide and earnest. Dean curses himself for being a sap and a pushover, but he still can’t help being touched by the sincerity in Cas' voice.

“It’s fine. Was a long time ago.” Dean shrugs, feigning nonchalance both about the grief of his father’s death, which still hits him sometimes at the weirdest moments, and about Cas and his stupidly blue eyes.

“Anyway. I do miss it, but when you spend a long time with the department, you get to see all the strings. The people cutting corners. Evidence getting mishandled. Detectives screwing up cases.” Dean pauses, realizing something. “What I really want is to help people who’ve been screwed over by sloppy police work. Find their missing loved ones, get the evidence they need to find closure on something.”

Dean gives Cas a crooked smile when it occurs to him that he’s never really put the truth to himself in quite that way. He figured he left the department because people there were blaming him for Benny’s death. That’s still part of the reason, but maybe Benny wasn’t the whole story. Maybe he was just the last step on Dean’s long way out the door.

Dean feels so light in the wake of his realization, it takes him a minute to process that Cas hasn’t said anything. “Something on your mind?”

There’s a muscle working in Cas’ jaw when he asks, “If you were trying to find Jimmy, how would you go about it?”

“Cas, you’re giving me whiplash here.” Dean tries for light and joking, but the words don’t seem to want to come out that way. “A couple hours ago, you were swearing me to absolute secrecy on the entire story. Now you want me to look into where your brother is?”

Cas shakes his head, a deep frown line carving its way between his eyes. “I don’t expect you to get involved. If I do this, I’m doing it by myself. All I’m asking you to do is tell me where to start.”

Dean freezes halfway through raising another bite of pork to his mouth. “Cas, you can’t be serious. If Nick really…” He swallows, trying to will away the sudden mental image of an angel with Cas’ face standing next to him on a lighthouse platform, an unseen hand pushing him over the edge. “If someone really hurt Jimmy, there’s no reason why that same person couldn’t hurt you.”

“I know that, Dean.” Cas leans forward, his face mere inches from Dean’s. Unnerved by their sudden proximity, Dean forces himself to breathe, slow and easy. “But you were right before. I was an idiot to think Nick’s story could be taken at face value. I have to at least _try_ to find Jimmy.”

Dean leans back, putting some much-needed space between them. There’s a fluttering in his chest that he recognizes as fear. Whether it’s fear for Cas’ safety or fear of how much he wants to close any remaining distance between them, he isn’t sure. As it has for decades now, his body shies away from weakness and converts it to aggression.

“Give me a break, Cas. You’ve been sitting at home with your thumb up your ass for months.” Dean knows he’s being too loud, too crude, but his temper has always had a mind of its own. “Now I show up here, and you’re telling me you suddenly wanna jump headfirst into some bullshit, self-sacrificial mission to find your brother?”

Cas’ eyes are twin shards of ice. “You can either give me advice, and I’ll follow it. Or you can refuse and I’ll probably end up doing something stupid. Your choice.”

Dean forces himself to take a deep breath, willing his voice to sound like it belongs to a rational human being. “Not much of a choice, Cas. You’re kind of putting me between a rock and a hard place there, pal.”

The flashing, icy fury from a moment ago slides off Cas’ face, replaced by a sudden vulnerability that burrows into places Dean hasn’t let himself look at in a long time.

“My mother was severely depressed,” Cas murmurs, eyes fixed firmly on the table. “She had grand plans for the difference she was going to make in the world. When those plans didn’t pan out, she considered herself a failure. She decided to name me after an angel because she wanted me to do what she couldn’t: make a difference. Save people, or even just one single person.”

When Cas looks up, his eyes are overflowing with emotion, and Dean would happily dive into them and let the current pull him under. “Dean, I failed Jimmy. I let him go when he needed me, and that mistake may have cost him his life. When Nick told me Jimmy was in trouble, and that I could help, I just wanted to let myself believe it. I wanted so badly to be the one who saved my little brother.” Cas smiles ruefully. “I was an idiot.”

Dean thinks of Sam, ten years ago, eyes wild and hands twitching with the effects of a bad high. He thinks of blood running down his own face, undeniable proof of a punch his brother threw. He thinks of Sam turning his back and walking out the door. In that moment, Dean thought they would never see each other again.

Dean’s hand develops a mind of its own then. It inches across the table to where Cas is clenching his hand into a fist, knuckles white. Dean’s thumb moves across those knuckles in long, soothing strokes. When Cas doesn’t pull back, Dean laces their fingers together and holds on tight.

“Who else, besides Nick, might know anything about Jimmy’s whereabouts?” Dean hopes Cas takes the question as the peace offering it’s meant to be. 

Judging by the quiet smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, he does. “Jimmy and I lost touch a long time ago. I don’t know any of his friends.”

“That kind of thing can be traced if you have the right resources. But what about your other brother? Michael? Would he know anything?”

Cas looks down at their joined hands, considering. “I don’t know. Jimmy and Michael were never close, but neither were Jimmy and Nick. It’s worth paying him a visit, at least.”

Dean nods his agreement, and they start throwing around ideas, the truce still holding.

Eventually, the beginnings of a plan emerge. Cas will visit Michael and carefully feel him out. After that, he’ll call Dean before he acts on any information Michael happens to have. In exchange, Dean’s going to trace Jimmy’s last known address through one of the databases accessible only to those with a private investigator’s license.

The whole time, unacknowledged, their hands stay intertwined on the tabletop.

By the time Dean runs out of excuses to stay, it’s almost dark outside. He’s halfway out the door when he remembers something.

“Hey, walk to the car with me? I’ve got something for you.”

Cas squints at him, confused, but Dean shakes his head, giving Cas a lopsided smile. “Don’t worry. If I was gonna knock you out and stuff you in my trunk, I could’ve done it before now.”

“Very reassuring. Thank you.” A barely perceptible quirk to Cas’ lip is the only tell that he’s joking, and Dean can’t help the small chuckle that escapes him.

When they walk up to the Impala, Dean feels suddenly, unaccountably shy. He opens the trunk and reaches into the far end, where a carefully folded trench coat is stored.

“This was actually yours, right?” Dean says as he passes the coat to Cas. It feels strangely like something much more significant is passing between them.

“Yes. Thank you, Dean,” Cas says quietly. “I never thought I would see this again.” Cas smiles, shaking out the coat and pulling it on. He looks up, eyes warm and hands spread with the palms facing forward. “Well? How do I look?”

Dean grins, something easy and sweet coming back to life inside him. “Much better.”

He notices, then, how the light from a nearby porch outlines Cas’ hair, making it look a whole lot like Jimmy’s. Dean thinks of another night, the two of them standing in a parking lot after dark. The touch of a hand and a lingering kiss. Cas looks exactly the same as he did when he walked away from Dean then.

Somehow, that realization makes the last of Dean’s hesitation fall away, and he leans forward. Gently, he cups the back of Cas’ head and pulls him in, pressing their lips together.

He keeps it short, pulling away before anything can happen to remind him of all the reasons he shouldn’t put his faith in another Novak.

“See you, Cas,” he murmurs into the space between them. 

Dean slides into the driver’s seat of the Impala, letting the purr of her engine ground him.

He keeps his eyes off the rear-view mirror as he drives away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally talked!
> 
> Next week: As Dean and Cas begin to investigate Jimmy's whereabouts, they receive an unexpected clue from Michael.


	6. Chapter 6

Unlike Nick’s office, Michael’s lacks the authority that comes with sitting behind a desk occupied by generations of other Novaks. 

But it’s no less ostentatious. Large, modern paintings line the walls, encased in frames so modest-looking, they must have cost a fortune. Every piece of furniture is made of wood or metal, all walnut stains and jagged lines. The only cushioned seat is Michael’s desk chair. Behind Michael and facing Castiel is a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that looks out over the San Francisco skyline. 

It’s a cloudy day, but when the sun is out and the shutters are open, anyone trying to hold a conversation with Michael would be forced to squint. If Castiel had to guess, he’d say it’s a deliberate choice to put any supplicants at a disadvantage.

Michael is studying Castiel from behind his desk. Of all the Novak sons, he is the only one who inherited their mother’s brown eyes. Thanks to his dark hair, he resembles Castiel more than he does Jimmy or Nick, but the angles of his face are softer than those of his brothers. It makes him look wholesome to the point of blandness — a mistaken impression that, Castiel thinks, has probably served him well in the business world.

“It’s been a while, Castiel,” Michael says, tenting his hands and smiling like the very picture of benevolence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s about Jimmy,” Castiel says, composing his face to appear unaffected by either his uncomfortable seat or the nervous rhythm of his heart. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about… about the way he died. I’ve been wondering whether there’s anything I could have done to stop him.”

“Interesting.” Michael’s voice twists the word until it’s sharp with disapproval. “I don’t recall seeing you at Jimmy’s funeral, Castiel.”

“No, I… I couldn’t face it.” Castiel pauses. He’s not a well-practiced liar, but perhaps he can take a leaf out of Nick’s book: telling just enough truth to hide the lie. “I felt guilty for the way I left things with him.”

“Not that your suddenly rediscovered attachment to our brother isn’t touching,” Michael says, the words laced with obvious impatience, “but I don’t quite see what you want me to tell you. Jimmy is dead. If you’ve come here just for brotherly bonding time, I’ll tell you right now: I’m not particularly interested.”

Out of Michael’s line of sight, Castiel’s hands clench into fists atop his thighs. Breathe in, breathe out, he tells himself, a constant, silent mantra. “I was hoping you might have some insight into Jimmy’s mental state. When was the last time you spoke to him?” 

To Castiel’s surprise, Michael snorts. “Insight into his mental state,” he repeats, smirking. “You could say that. Such as it was.”

Castiel squints, not bothering to hide his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“After Dad’s will was read, I didn’t see Jimmy for years. Didn’t particularly want to, either. It was pretty clear he was determined to follow mom into an early grave, even back then. Figured he’d kick the bucket a lot sooner than he did.”

Swallowing down the tight ball of rage in his chest, Castiel forces himself to home in on the salient fact. “But you’ve seen him since then?”

Michael nods. “He was here, sitting in that very chair.” He points a finger at Castiel’s seat in illustration. “Must have been about a month before he died.”

“What?” An ice-cold shiver crawls up Castiel’s spine. He’d thought coming here was a long shot. Just some due diligence along the way to the bigger and better leads that would undoubtedly follow once Dean found Jimmy’s address. He swallows. “What did he want?”

Michael’s smile is saccharine, indulgent. “He said he had some information that would be of interest to me. I figured he was just looking for a handout. He denied it, but when I asked him to show me the information, he said he didn’t have it. Said he was keeping it in the world’s safest place.” Michael chuckles. “Can you believe that?”

Something tugs at Castiel — a memory, trying to get his attention. He files it away for now, to be examined later. “Michael,” he says, putting every ounce of effort he possesses into disguising his excitement. “Did he tell you what the information was about?”

Michael shrugs, unconcerned. “What does it matter? He was obviously delusional.”

Castiel is past caring about being subtle. He indulges himself, letting his voice carry the full measure of contempt he feels for his brother. “For once in your miserable, selfish existence, do something right. Tell me what the information was about.”

Michael smirks, sharp and glinting. “I see you’ve grown a spine, Cas. Good for you.” He leans back, surveying Castiel with a spark of interest. “Jimmy told me he had information that could be extremely damaging to Novak Shipping.”

***

“Everything good? You seem distracted.”

Dean forces himself to look up from his phone and face Lisa’s concerned gaze across the table.

She’d invited him out to dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant, just down the street from her apartment. He hadn’t exactly felt like going out on the day of Cas’ meeting with Michael, but Lisa made it sound like attendance wasn’t optional. Except now he’s here, and all he can think about is how Cas still hasn’t called or texted to let him know how the meeting went.

That, and the small scrap of paper in his back pocket where he scrawled the last known address of James Novak Jr. He texted the information to Cas earlier that day, along with a note to say that the place hasn’t been rented to anyone else, and he’s kicking himself for it now. What if Cas does something stupid, like go there by himself?

Dean realizes that Lisa’s still waiting for him to answer her. So much for being a good friend to her for once. “Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was asking,” Lisa says, smiling, but with a brittle edge to it, “if you’re ready to order.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean looks down at the menu and realizes he hasn’t taken in a single word of it since they got here. Before he can try again, though, Lisa says, “I met someone.”

Her words come out in a nervous rush, and it takes Dean a minute to process what she actually said. “Met someone? What, a guy?”

Lisa hums, looking amused in spite of herself. “Yes, a guy. Unlike you, I only swing one way.”

“That’s great, Lis,” Dean says vaguely, trying his hardest to be sufficiently interested in Lisa’s love life to keep his eyes from sliding back to his phone screen. 

Lisa seems to interpret his distraction as annoyance, because she says, “I was going to tell you sooner. It just… didn’t seem like a great time.” She reaches across the table to squeeze his hand, and Dean hates himself a little for wishing he was here with Cas instead. “But I feel like you’ve been doing a lot better these past couple of days.”

Dean thinks about it. “Yeah. I guess I have been,” he says, half surprising himself. 

He hasn’t actually spoken to Cas since they said goodbye in Muir Beach three days ago. Instead, they’ve traded occasional texts, mostly about Cas’ upcoming meeting with Michael, but sometimes just to chat. Dean still has the occasional moment of doubt about the wisdom of getting involved in Cas' search for Jimmy, but they’re becoming more and more rare.

A waiter stops by the table and drops off a couple of beers that Lisa apparently ordered while Dean wasn’t paying attention. Guilt curling in his gut once again, he forces his brain to rejoin the conversation. “So, you met someone.”

Lisa nods, a soft smile playing around her lips. “His name’s Matt. He’s a doctor.”

Dean gives her his most lurid grin and adds a wink for good measure. “Jackpot.”

Lisa kicks him under the table. “Be serious. I really like him.”

“How long you been seeing him?” Dean asks, very determinedly not looking at his silent phone.

Lisa chews on her bottom lip, looking caught out. “About three months.”

“Three… Wait, you’ve been in a relationship with someone for three months, and you didn’t think to let me know?”

“You weren’t in a good place." Lisa sounds apologetic, but there's a hint of defensiveness too. "And, if I’m being honest, I was a little worried you’d think I was replacing you.”

Dean leans forward, meeting Lisa’s eyes. “Lis, I know I’ve been a crappy friend to you, and I’ve had a rough year. But you haven’t been holding back on my account, right? You haven’t been… I don’t know, waiting for me this whole time?”

The mere thought makes something twist in Dean’s stomach. He’s never been good at using his words when it comes to stuff like this, but he’d always thought he made it clear that he and Lisa were well and truly over.

Lisa shoots him a reassuring smile. “No. Not in the way that you mean. I just… after we broke up, we worked really hard to stay friends, and somehow, we actually got to that place. After that, I always figured we’d be each other’s… not boyfriend or girlfriend, but each other’s person, until we found somebody else who was worth sharing our lives with. And I think we have been.” Her smile takes on a slightly hesitant edge. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Dean squeezes Lisa’s hand and grins, as bright as he can. It doesn't feel as forced as it might have before that memorable day in Muir Beach. “Yeah, you could say that.”

The waiter chooses that moment to come back for their order. Dean still hasn’t had a chance to so much as glance at the menu, so he picks the first thing his eyes land on, which, by a rare stroke of luck, doesn’t seem to contain more vegetables than he can handle.

When the waiter makes his exit, Lisa catches Dean's eye again. “Anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s been really good having that with you. But I think it’s time for a change.”

Dean can’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m not trying to break up with you here,” Lisa says gently, reading Dean like a book as always. “I’m just saying, this guy, Matt? I like him. And I still want the two of us to be friends. But I want _him_ to be my person.” She smiles self-consciously. “So that’s why I wanted to wait to talk to you until you were… feeling OK.”

She squeezes Dean’s hand, so tightly it almost hurts. It’s impressive, considering her small frame. “You’ll find your person too, Dean. I know you will.”

Dean smiles and bends over the table, planting a small kiss on Lisa’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Lis. I’ll be just fine.” Paired with the memory of dark hair outlined in the glow of a porch light and lips meeting softly in the darkness, the words almost feel true.

Their food comes, and it’s delicious. Now that the weighty subjects are out of the way, conversation flows as easily between them as it always does. As they walk out and hug before they go their separate ways, Dean’s almost forgotten about Cas’ big meeting.

Until he pulls his phone out of his pocket to find a missed call and a text from Cas, time-stamped about 15 minutes ago: “I’m at Jimmy’s place, but the front door is locked and I can’t find a spare key. What are the chances you know how to pick a lock?” 

*** 

Jimmy turns out to live in a squat, two-story rowhouse along Sargent Street in Merced Heights. It’s not the best neighborhood, but the house itself looks in decent shape. Once again, not what Dean would’ve expected from a strung-out addict.

When Dean gets there, Cas is sitting on the front steps, waiting.

Dean pulls over along the curb and stalks up the street to meet him. “What the hell were you thinking, Cas, coming here by yourself?”

“Keep it down, Dean." Cas frowns at him, like _he's_ the one being unreasonable. "We don’t want anyone to call the police.”

Dean throws his arms up in frustration, looming over Cas from two steps below him. “Why the hell not? They’ll get the place open and we’ll see what there is to see.”

Cas shakes his head, looking stubborn enough to wait out the universe itself if he has to. “There’s something in there I need to find. I think I have an idea where it is, but I need to look at it first, before I get the police involved.” He squints up at Dean. “I’m sorry. I know I said you could stay out of this, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Dean slumps onto the step next to Cas. “Wanna tell me what happened at your meeting with Michael? I feel like I’m about ten steps behind.”

Cas runs a hand over his face, pulling the skin taut. “Jimmy went to see Michael a couple of weeks before I got that first phone call from Nick. Michael says Jimmy offered him damaging information about Novak Shipping. He thought Jimmy was delusional and kicked him out."

“Shit, Cas.” Dean rests a steadying hand on Cas’ knee. Jimmy being safe and hiding somewhere is a lot less likely now, and they both know it. “I’m sorry.”

They sit in silence for a minute, until Dean lets curiosity get the better of him. “Can I ask though… if there might be dirt on Nick in there.” He points over his shoulder at the bright-red front door. “Why _not_ hand it over to the police?”

Cas turns to face Dean, pinning him with his bone-deep gaze. “Because if there’s any clue in there as to what happened to my brother, I need to see it for myself before it falls into the hands of someone who might be in Nick's pocket.”

Dean nods and just lets himself hold Cas’ eyes for a moment while he’s trying to decide how much to tell him.

Eventually, he says, “I told you the place hasn’t been rented to anyone since Jimmy, right?” Cas nods. “Well, I thought that was weird, considering how long it’s been since… since Jimmy was declared dead. So I looked up the ownership records, and I called the owner, some chick by the name of Meg Masters. She said the rent was still being covered, but she wouldn’t tell me who was paying.”

Cas blinks at him. “Meg Masters? I know her. She’s an old friend of Nick’s.”

“Huh.” Dean looks out at the street, watching a young mother push a rickety umbrella stroller up the steep incline as he thinks. “Then I’d bet my bottom dollar that Nick’s the one who got Jimmy this place and who’s still paying the rent on it. Isn’t that interesting.”

Cas reaches out, gripping Dean’s arm. “Dean, let’s go. I need to know what’s in there.”

Dean nods. “OK then. Probably not a great idea for us to sit out here in plain view anyway, if we’re about to do some old-fashioned B&E.” With a grunt, he rises off the steps and walks up the rest of the way, careful to keep his eyes on the ground, away from the view down the sides of the staircase. When he gets to the top, he kneels on the stoop, turning his attention to the front door. Luckily, it’s recessed into a little alcove that should shield them from the prying eyes of neighbors on either side.

Dean pulls out his tools. The lock is straightforward enough, and it takes less than two minutes until he feels the telltale give and slide of the pins. He leans his shoulder into the door, but it opens barely a sliver before it snags on something. Dean risks a glance through the mail slot in the center.

“There’s a bunch of mail on the other side,” he tells Cas, who squats down next to the small opening Dean’s managed to create. 

Cas grunts as he snakes his arm through it. “Hang on, I think I can reach.” When Cas extracts his arm again, he’s holding a messy pile of letters, and the door gives another couple of inches. 

Dean takes the envelopes from Cas and looks at them more closely. It’s mostly spam and bills, except, near the bottom… “Cas, check it out. This one’s from Novak Shipping.” He drops the other letters and slides his index finger under the flap of the envelope. With a quick, sure movement, Dean rips it open and extracts the paper inside.

“It’s a pay stub.”

“What?” Cas rips the thing from his hand and studies it. He looks up at Dean, frowning. “Why would Jimmy be working for Novak Shipping?”

“Beats me. And we still can’t fit through the door. See if you can get anything else out.”

Cas reaches through the gap three more times, each time coming back with more envelopes. They find several months’ worth of pay stubs. None of them are worth a fortune, but they add up to a respectable salary.

After the third time, Dean gives a determined push at the door, and it finally glides open wide enough for them to walk inside.

The interior of the house is dark, shutters drawn. Dean gropes along the wall until he finds a light switch, just to the right of the door.

When the light clicks on, it illuminates complete chaos. Almost every single piece of furniture has been overturned. Every drawer in the living room and the adjacent kitchen unit has been pulled out and dashed to the floor, contents spilling out.

Untidy piles of paper litter a small couch in the corner, as though someone had been trying to read them and then dropped them on the first available surface in a fit of frustration.

Dean swallows heavily and looks over at Cas. His face is frozen, jaw clenched, as he takes in the destruction in front of them.

More than ever, Dean kicks himself for sharing the address with Cas right away. He should’ve come alone first so he could figure out what was waiting for them here.

“This is good,” Cas says, nodding grimly.

“Wait, what?”

“This is good. Nick obviously knew there was something to find here, but he didn’t know where to look.”

Dean frowns, putting the pieces together in his head. “That’s why he’s been covering the rent all this time. He doesn’t want anyone else moving in if there’s a possibility that there’s still something incriminating hidden somewhere.”

Cas turns to face Dean, and the frozen expression from before is gone, leaving raw fury and determination. “Nick didn’t know where to look,” he repeats, “but I do.”

Dean, knocked a little off balance by how stunning Cas is when he’s angry, barely takes in what he’s being told. 

When he blinks back to full awareness, it’s to find that Cas has walked further into the house and grabbed a chair. He sets it against a corner of the wall next to a doorway, beyond which Dean can just make out a staircase, probably leading to the bedroom.

Cas clambers onto the chair, and there’s suddenly a screwdriver clutched in his right hand.

“What’re you doing, there, Cas?”

“Jimmy told Michael that he hid the evidence in the world’s safest place.”

Walking closer, Dean notices a vent cover near Cas’ head. It’s held in place by two screws.

“It was a game we used to play as kids,” Cas says, getting to work on the first screw. “Whenever we had something we didn’t want our parents to find, we’d hide it inside the vents in our rooms. We called them ‘the safest place in the world.’ No one ever found us out.” 

Cas moves on to the second screw and lets the vent cover fall into his hand. He reaches into the opening and, with an expression of quiet triumph, pulls out a bundle of papers.

Dean grabs it from him and pulls off the rubber band holding it together. Within moments, more than twenty official-looking forms are spread out on the dining table. 

“Do you know what any of this stuff is, Cas?”

Cas frowns thoughtfully, studying the paperwork. “They’re commercial invoices. A couple of export packing lists and inspection certificates. All signed or co-signed by various managers at Novak Shipping.” He shuffles through the papers again. “None by Nick himself, though.”

Dean stares down at the forms, willing them to make sense. This kind of stuff has always been Sam’s area of expertise, not his. “Can you tell if there’s anything wrong with them?”

Cas shakes his head, every line of his body radiating frustration. “I used to handle this kind of paperwork for the company, but it’s been a while. Everything looks OK to me, at least at first glance.”

“That could be good news, right?” Dean tries to sound hopeful, but it falls flat. If Jimmy found no actual evidence of wrongdoing, there’s still a very distinct possibility he’s been hurt or killed, but they won’t have anything against Nick.

Judging by Cas’ sideways glare at Dean, he knows it too.

Dean frowns down at the paperwork for another minute, but he’s just putting off the inevitable. Whatever this is, it’s too big for him and Cas to handle by themselves.

He needs to call Sam.

*** 

Castiel wishes he could sleep.

He just wants a bit of peace, and a few hours where he doesn’t have to picture the destruction they found at his brother’s house and what it means, doesn’t have to feel his last shreds of hope shrivel away to nothing.

Of course, he’d already known that the odds were stacked against Jimmy being alive. And yet, he’d constructed an elaborate story in his head where everything Nick told him about Jimmy was true. In this story, Nick knew nothing about Jimmy’s visit to Michael or the paperwork Jimmy had apparently stolen from the Novak Shipping offices. The whole thing was just a massive coincidence, and Jimmy was even now safe and in hiding, just like Nick had told him.

But the entire house of cards came crumbling down as soon as they walked into Jimmy’s house.

After their discovery of the papers, Dean stepped outside to call his brother, and he suggested that they head back to his apartment to wait for Sam. Castiel’s anger had given way by then to a strange numbness, and he simply nodded and walked to his car. He followed Dean’s Impala through the city streets, too tired and hollow to be amused by this reverse callback to the early days of their acquaintance. 

By the time they arrived at Dean’s apartment, the adrenaline of discovery had dissipated completely and Castiel found himself quietly spiraling. Dean, apparently sensing the change in his mood, deposited him on the couch with a blanket and a small tumbler of whiskey.

Castiel doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here already, clutching soft fabric and cool glass, but he should probably leave. He should drive home, or at least find a place close by to stay for the night.

Just another few minutes, he tells himself every couple of minutes, nursing his drink and listening to Dean’s hushed exchange with his brother. They’re sitting next to each other at Dean’s dining table, hunched over the paperwork from Jimmy’s house.

“I have to tell _someone_ at the department about this, Dean. If anyone finds out I suppressed evidence in a potential homicide case…”

At the mention of the H word, Dean makes frantic shushing motions with his hands, probably for the benefit of Castiel’s feelings. “You’re not suppressing anything, Sam. Not exactly. All I’m asking is that you only share this with people you’d trust with your life. Jo maybe, or Singer.”

“Singer would have my hide if he knew I was even _looking_ at something that’s been obtained without a proper search warrant.” Sam sounds dismissive, but there’s a thoughtful cast to his features.

“Someone else then. Just, whoever you’re absolutely sure isn’t in Nick Novak’s pocket.”

Sam exhales heavily through his nose.

“C’mon, Sam. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important. You’re always telling me you’ve been waiting for a chance to nail Nick Novak on something. Well, this could be it.” Dean taps the stack of paperwork on the table for emphasis. “But we have to play this smart.”

Sam doesn’t speak for a little while. Finally, on another sigh, he says, “Fine.”

Dean claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Sammy. Knew I could count on you.”

“I’ll take the forms with me so I can look them over and figure out what they’re telling us,” Sam says, all business now that the decision is made. “I won’t take them to the station. I’ll keep them in my safe at home.”

Dean nods. “Sounds good.”

“Alright.” Sam rises from his chair. “It was nice to meet you, Castiel. Sorry it was under such awful circumstances.”

Castiel looks up to meet Sam’s face, which is warm and full of sympathy. He nods, not feeling up to producing a smile just now. “Goodbye, Sam.”

“I’ll look over those documents tonight and let you know tomorrow what I’ve found,” Sam says, turning to Dean.

Dean pulls him into a tight hug. “Bye, Sam. Thank you.”

Sam smiles ruefully. “You guys better be right about this.”

When the door closes behind his brother, Dean looks back at Castiel and gives him an uncertain smile. “How’re you doing, Cas?”

“I…” Castiel glances over to the window. It’s dark outside. “I’m OK. I should go home. It’s late.”

He forces himself off the couch and reaches for his coat, but a hand on his arm stops him. “I can’t let you do that, Cas,” Dean says softly. “You’re in no shape to drive. You can crash here tonight. If Sam wants to talk to us about the forms tomorrow, it’s more practical this way anyway.” He inclines his head at the couch. “I’ll bunk out here. It’s no problem.”

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but finds he’s simply too tired. He doesn’t want to drive home, and he doesn’t want to be alone. Maybe he can let life be just that simple for once.

“OK,” he finds himself saying.

Dean leads him to the bedroom, where he produces a t-shirt, pajama bottoms, a towel and even a spare toothbrush. Castiel nods his thanks and heads to the bathroom to wash up.

When Castiel returns, Dean is on the couch, watching TV in a worn t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He looks up, and the lines of his face soften into a small smile. “Hey, Cas. Going to bed? Let me know if you need anything.”

Castiel knows he should turn to go and get some much-needed rest, but his feet don’t seem to want to walk away from Dean and to the dark, lonely bedroom down the hall.

“Dean, would you… would you stay with me?”

Dean’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I could sit at the desk, try to get some work done until you’re asleep.”

Castiel nods, grateful, and heads to the bedroom. He burrows under the warm comforter and closes his eyes, listening for the little sounds that proclaim Dean’s presence in the room: the creak of a desk chair, the clatter of fingers moving across a keyboard.

Castiel breathes in the subtle scent of Dean’s cologne that clings to the sheets, and forces his brain to stop dwelling on thoughts of Jimmy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of hiding crucial evidence behind vent covers is an homage to one of my favorite noir stories of all time. If you know which, let me know in the comments :) . 
> 
> Next week: The boys get a whole lot... closer. Sam discovers an important piece of evidence. Cas decides to take a dangerous risk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading over Chapter 7 again, I realized that a) it's short and b) it links up directly with the scenes from the previous chapter. Considering all that, it seemed unfair to make everyone wait a week for this. So here I am, posting early. Look for the regularly scheduled update on Saturday, which will include the final chapter and epilogue.
> 
> Also, this chapter contains smut. If that's not your thing, you might want to stop reading around "By way of an answer, Cas tilts his face, eyes closing" and pick up again at "That was... something else."

For quite some time, Dean keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his computer screen. If he doesn’t look at the bed, he can pretend that Cas is still awake, still needs him to stay.

But eventually, nature calls, and Dean spins away from the desk to find that Cas is very much _not_ awake.

He’s burrowed into Dean’s sheets, his hair messier than ever and the usual dark stubble dusting his cheeks. The worried lines across his forehead have been smoothed away by sleep, making him look soft and peaceful. Something clenches in Dean’s chest, hard, and he knows he’s lost the fight. Maybe there wasn’t ever a fight to begin with.

Picking up the pieces of his heart, he turns off the desk lamp and shuffles to the bathroom. 

As he washes his hands, he takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, wondering if he looks different, being in love. It’s been so long, he can’t remember.

He’s torn out of his thoughts by the sound of a shout from the other room. Heart suddenly racing, he tears out of the bathroom and down the hall.

Cas is sitting up in bed, chest heaving and eyes wide, looking at his surroundings in obvious confusion.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, both hands held in front of him, like he’s talking to a wild animal that’s easily spooked. “Hey. You’re alright. Just a dream. You’re OK.” Dean’s feet carry him to the bed, to Cas, and he’s helpless to stop them. He sits, his arms coming up around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him in until he’s cradled against Dean’s chest. “You’re OK.” Dean murmurs the words into Cas’ messy hair, wanting to believe the truth of them more than anything. “You’ll be OK.”

Cas twists until he’s facing Dean, and his arms wrap around Dean’s waist. “Dean,” Cas murmurs into the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine at the sensation of someone else’s breath on his skin, just above the collar of his t-shirt.

Cas’ arms tighten, and Dean's own wrap more closely around Cas’ neck in almost involuntary response. Their bodies are pressed together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm, and every muscle in Dean’s body is straining to get even closer.

A soft gasp escapes him when he feels one of Cas’ arms pulling off his waist and a finger tracing down the skin of his arm, from just below the sleeve of his t-shirt to the thin, sensitive skin on his wrist.

Twice now, they’ve kissed, and each time, one of them ran, unwilling to face the rejection that might come next.

But this… this is different. A hug is comfort, but Cas’ fingers drawing gentle lines down the side of Dean’s arm, even as his other hand settles on the small of Dean’s back… it’s a lot more than that.

Dean loosens his hold on Cas and pulls back ever so slightly, nuzzling at the skin just below Cas’ ear. The touch is so gentle, so light, that it could be denied if questioned. But the question never comes.

Emboldened, Dean places a whisper-soft kiss just below the line of Cas’ jaw. His skin is thrumming with the need to touch every inch of the man in his arms, and be touched in turn. He hears the hitch of Cas’ breath when he turns his face to trail the tip of his nose along a stubbled cheek, relishing the soft, burning drag.

Dean lets their noses touch, gently, and whispers into the ever-dwindling space between them, “Cas, is this OK?”

By way of an answer, Cas tilts his face, eyes closing.

The last inch of space disappears when Cas leans forward. The kiss begins slow, unhurried, until Cas’ tongue darts out to lick at Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean opens to it with a soft, broken moan. Cas’ hand comes to rest on the back of Dean’s head, fingers curling around the delicate hair there, pulling him closer. Their kiss gains urgency, lips and tongues sliding, fighting to take control.

Strong hands leave sparks in their wake as they trail down Dean's spine, settling on Dean's hips and pulling at them until his back hits the mattress. Cas looms over him, blue eyes electric even in the dim light from the window, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful. 

There’s heat in those eyes, a desire that grabs at Dean’s insides and takes hold until he can feel his cock hardening with want, pushing up against the fabric of his pants. Cas dives in for another kiss, pushing his hard length against Dean's in languid, delicious friction.

“Cas,” Dean gasps when he comes up for air, “Cas, are you sure about this, man? It’s been a rough day and…” Dean isn’t sure how to finish that sentence, but he knows he wants to give Cas the chance to say no, to back out of this.

“More than sure,” Cas growls into the skin of Dean’s neck, kissing his way to all the soft, secret places where Dean likes to be touched. Cas’ breaths are fast and urgent against Dean’s skin, and he can feel his own speeding up to meet them, tripping over each other in their haste to connect. “Dean, I want… can I see you?” Cas pants, even as he leans down and pushes his crotch down against Dean’s again, ragged moans mingling in the air between them. 

Dean nods against Cas’ collarbone, tracing its outline with his mouth as he fumbles to get a grip on the waistband of his sweats.

Hands clumsy and desperate, they pull and tug at each other’s clothes until finally, there’s nothing but a pile of fabric on the floor and skin meeting skin. Dean leans back and Cas bends over him, his cock hard and heavy as he slides down Dean’s body, leaving smears of precome in his wake.

Dean lets himself float, feeling Cas nip and lick at every inch of his chest and press awed kisses to the insides of his thighs. Every time an inch of Cas’ skin drags against Dean’s untouched length, a whimper escapes him, and he arches up, desperate to take anything Cas is offering.

“Cas, please,” he whispers, his voice cracking as it slides over the hot, smooth skin of Cas’ shoulder, “need you.”

“Dean,” Cas answers, voice canyon-deep and urgent, as he moves back up to capture Dean’s lips in another searing kiss, all sliding tongues and heaving breaths.

Cas pulls away, and Dean chases after, but Cas pushes him back onto the mattress, unrelenting. He traces a thumb over Dean’s lips, and Dean takes it inside, arousal flooding his veins as he imagines a heavier weight on his tongue, filling him up and stretching him wide.

Eventually, his eyes flutter open and find Cas looking down at him, eyes lust-darkened and lips kiss-swollen. He takes hold of one of Dean’s hands and licks a broad stripe up the palm. Chest heaving, Cas guides Dean’s wrist lower, letting it trail along the taut, sweat-slick skin of his stomach.

Dean groans, long and broken, when his fingers find the smooth, rock-hard flesh between Cas’ legs.

He starts out with slow and easy pumps, but when he feels Cas fuck up into his fist, he loses all control, tightening his hand and jerking at a desperate pace.

Cas moans above him, taking hold of Dean’s cock and rubbing circles across the head, gathering up precome to slick his way. At the feeling of strong, sure fingers wrapping around him, Dean bucks his hips, wanting more of the heat and friction and maddening intensity.

Before long, the erratic movement of Cas' hips, the slack-jawed pleasure on his face, warn Dean that Cas is close, and the sounds of his partner's pleasure have Dean chasing after him. When Dean's own climax finally claims him, he feels every muscle seize with it, leaving him somehow heavy and weightless at the same time.

Cas collapses onto Dean’s chest, and Dean pulls him close, heedless of the mess they’re making of each other. He breathes in Cas’ warm, musky, after-sex smell and runs a gentle hand through tangled, sweat-soaked hair.

“That was… something else,” Dean says, quietly, terrified of bursting the delicate little bubble of happiness he’s somehow found himself in. But if Cas is going to have any regrets about this, he wants to know as soon as possible so he can go lick his wounds.

Cas rolls to the side, wincing slightly as he pulls away from the sticky mess of sweat and come between them, and props himself up on one elbow. When he looks up, the usual sadness is back in his eyes, but there’s a small quirk to his lip and a softness to his face. “It was wonderful, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean tries to brush the compliment off with a smirk, but his muscles don’t seem to want to work that way just now. “You don’t have to thank me for sex, Cas.”

“No, really,” Cas says, pulling at Dean's arm until Dean is lying on his side and they're facing each other. “After what happened, after everything we’ve been through… I didn’t think you’d ever trust me enough for anything like this to happen between us.”

“Wasn’t your fault, Cas,” Dean whispers as he reaches down for Cas’ hand, pulling it up and lacing their fingers on the pillow between them. “None of this was your fault. We got played. Both of us.”

Cas’ eyes glint in the semi-darkness of the room, heavy with emotion. “I’m sad, and I’m scared, and I’m so, so angry. But this…” He squeezes Dean’s hand. “This is a good thing. No matter what happens, I want to keep this. Is that what you want?”

Hating the edge of uncertainty in Cas’ voice, Dean scoots closer, wrapping his free arm around Cas’ waist. “Yeah, Cas. I lost you once. I’m not losing you again.”

They should get up, take a shower, take time to plan the next steps. But all that, Dean figures, can wait until tomorrow. He pulls the sheet over them and slots their bodies together, holding Cas with all the strength and conviction that comes from knowing they’ve taken their blows, and now it’s their turn to fight back.

*** 

When Castiel wakes, it’s to find himself alone, in a strange bed.

The events of the previous night take a moment to come back to him, but when they do, he smiles. His chest still aches with the knowledge that he’s unlikely to see his brother ever again, but the ache is softened by the memory of Dean’s skin under his fingers, the sounds of Dean’s pleasure still ringing in his ears.

He sits up, listening for sounds in the rest of the apartment, and notices a pair of soft voices drifting from the direction of the living room. He stretches and gets out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s slacks and shirt.

Dean and Sam are bent over a pile of papers on the dining table, much like they were last night. When Castiel clears his throat, they look up, and Dean gives him a dazzling smile. “Morning, Cas. Come join us. There’s eggs and bacon in the pan on the stove, and there’s coffee too.”

“Bless you,” Castiel croaks. Dean walks over to meet him in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers to retrieve a plate, mug and fork. He hands them to Castiel, then brushes a finger over the skin of his arm, blushing a little when their eyes meet. The ache in Castiel’s chest recedes a little bit further, and he captures Dean’s hand in his, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

When Castiel turns away, it’s to find Sam grinning at them before he hurriedly turns back to studying the papers spread across the table.

Castiel fills his mug and loads his plate with crisp bacon and scrambled eggs, then heads over to the table, settling on the chair next to Dean’s.

“So Sam came over to show us what he found,” Dean says, looking excited.

Sam nods. “I actually went over to Jimmy’s place after I left here last night, to have a look around myself. Noticed that the only thing that didn’t seem to have been rifled through was the trashcan next to the desk in the upstairs bedroom. I found _this_ at the bottom.”

Sam reaches into a messenger bag next to his chair and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He slides it across the table to Castiel. When Castiel recognizes Jimmy’s messy scrawl, he feels a small prickle at the back of his eyes. Embarrassed, he wipes at them and blinks to clear his vision enough to read.

_Dear Cas,_

_I hope you’re doing well._

_I’m sorry for the way I left things between us. I’ve thought about calling you pretty often over the years, but I heard you got out from under the family’s thumb. I figured you deserved to enjoy that in peace._

_Funny thing is, I thought I was out too. But a few months ago, I got into some debt, so I went to Nick. Believe me, I’m not proud of it. He wouldn’t give me the money outright, but he said he’d let me work for it._

_So I’ve been slaving away for the company for a couple of months now as a glorified rubber stamp, moving paperwork from one department to the next._

_After a while, I paid off my debt and figured I was in the clear. I was actually making up my mind to quit when I saw the guy I’d just paid off, coming out of Nick’s office. Fergus Crowley. He’s got some big-shot law practice downtown, but it’s a front for something very different. You know what I used to be into, so you can probably imagine. Anyway, if Nick’s doing business with Crowley, he probably could have made my debt go away with a snap of his fingers, but that’s not how he operates. He wanted me indebted to him instead, and that’s exactly what he got._

_But I’m not going to take it, Cas. I’ll find the proof that Nick’s into something illegal with Crowley, and I’ll take it to Michael. The police won’t want to listen to an ex-addict screw-up’s word over Nick Novak’s, but they’ll listen to Michael. If I can get him on my side, I can bring down Nick, and the whole damn company along with him._

_I don’t even know why I’m trying to tell you all this. Maybe because you’re the only one who understands that the company was what broke our family in the first place. Or maybe because I’m hoping that once I get this whole mess figured out, we can get together or something. Celebrate being the two Novaks who got away._

The letter breaks off here. Cas pictures his brother, sitting at his desk, trying to reach out to him and thinking better of it. The Jimmy in his mind shakes his head and crumples his letter into a tight ball, angling his throw so the paper hits the bottom of an empty trash can, waiting to be found by the right person.

He becomes aware that there’s a hand on his thigh and looks up to find Dean’s eyes searching his face, forehead pinched with concern. “You alright, Cas?”

Cas swallows, wiping at the wetness on his face. “Did you read it?”

“No, but… but Sam told me what it said.”

“Sorry, Cas.” Sam grimaces. “I’m glad I found it, though. Not just because you should have it, but because it helped me figure something out.”

Sam pushes several sheets of paper off the stack and toward Cas. “I was looking over some of these packing lists and invoices. There was one Novak Shipping client whose name kept cropping up over and over. A company called Royal Transport. After a while, I noticed that the forms for other clients looked very different. Jimmy must’ve included them for comparison.”

Sam spreads out three invoices. One of them identifies Royal Transport as the customer, the other two name different companies. “See here?” Sam points down at the line items on each invoice. “These two invoices list every single piece of cargo Novak Shipping moved for these customers. I’m pretty sure that’s standard practice, right?”

Castiel nods. He didn’t spend a long time working for the company, but he knows that much.

“Now check this out.” Sam taps the line items on the Royal Transport invoice. “This lists the number of containers shipped for Royal, but under contents, it just says, ‘miscellaneous consumer products.’”

Castiel frowns. “That would never pass muster during an inspection.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Sam agrees. “And yet, the inspector checked the load and approved it. That form is right over here.” He pushes another piece of paper at Castiel, the inspector’s seal bold and prominent at the bottom. “He was likely paid off.”

Dean looks back and forth between them, smiling. “See, Cas? What’d I tell you? I knew Sam could figure this out.”

“Hold your horses,” Sam says, waving off his brother’s praise. “I’m not sure I _would’ve_ figured it out without Jimmy’s help.” He nods at the letter, which is still clutched in Castiel’s hand. “After I read it, I did some digging into this Crowley guy. His name is on the incorporation papers for something called Infernal Holdings.” He leans back, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Guess what one of its subsidiaries is called.”

“Royal Transport,” Dean announces, beaming at his brother and Castiel in turn.

Castiel swallows. “Does that… does that mean we have the evidence we need?”

“Yes and no,” Sam says, looking apologetic. “We know that Novak Shipping is involved in something shady, but not a single one of these forms is signed by Nick himself. Jimmy’s letter says he saw Crowley come out of Nick’s office, but that’ll never hold up in court.” 

Sam looks back and forth between Dean and Castiel, vaguely apprehensive. “If it’s Nick we want, then we need to get him on the record somehow. We need a confession.”

Dean stares at Sam, slack-jawed, then shakes his head, pointing a warning finger at his brother. “No way. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not happening. Cas is _not_ wearing a fucking wire!”

Dean’s words slam into Castiel with the force of a boulder. He was so sure he'd failed his brother, and that he would never be able to fully atone for it. Now, it seems he's being given one final chance.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounds. “But that’s not your decision to make.” He turns to Sam. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Thank you, Cas.” Sam nods, smiling tightly. “I know you don’t wanna hear this, Dean, but this might be in Cas’ best interest. It’s not inherently illegal to fake someone’s death, but if the point was to help Nick cover up his criminal conduct, Cas could be charged as an accessory.”

Dean glares at Sam, hands bunched into fists, but he stays silent.

“If Cas cooperates and helps us get evidence against Nick, all that could go away,” Sam says, almost pleadingly. “Not to mention, if Nick gets wind of the fact that you and Cas have been looking into his business, you’re both in danger anyway.”

Dean turns to Castiel, clearly looking for an ally. “C’mon, Cas. You can’t be serious. We’ll figure something else out. There’s another way. We just have to keep looking.”

Castiel reaches across the table, covering Dean’s fist with his hand and squeezing gently. “I know you’re worried. But I _want_ to do this.” With a sideways glance at Sam, he adds, “And someone will be nearby, in case anything goes wrong. Right?”

Sam nods. “I’ll be as close as possible, listening in, and I’ll get a couple of trustworthy colleagues to back me up too.”

Cas smiles at Sam and Dean in turn, trying to project a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. 

"Well, sounds like you two have shit all figured out," Dean hisses as he shoots up from his chair, almost upsetting it, and stalks across the room. He reaches into the closet for a jacket, then tears the front door open.

It slams behind him with a resounding thud.

“Don’t worry.” Sam’s smile is reassuring, but not enough to keep Castiel’s spiraling worry at bay. “He just needs a minute to cool off. He’ll be back, and then he’ll offer to make you food and pretend everything’s fine, and that might be as much of an apology as you’re going to get.”

“Are you sure he’s going to want me here when he gets back? Maybe I should go home.”

“He will,” Sam says, sounding so sure as to be almost casual. He neatens the pile of papers on the table and returns them to his messenger bag. “But in any case, I wouldn’t recommend going home for a while. Dean said you live out in Muir Beach, all by yourself? Not a good situation to be in when you’re trying to take down one of the most powerful men in the city.”

Castiel nods. It was a thought that had occurred to him too, but he hadn’t made up his mind about how to address it.

“You and Dean should stick together for a couple of days,” Sam says, zipping his bag and straightening up. “Once he gets over his tantrum, I mean. It’ll take me at least forty-eight hours to get approval for a listening device, especially since we’re trying to keep this whole plan quiet.” Sam checks his phone and winces apologetically. “Listen, I have to head out, but Dean’ll be back soon. I guarantee it. Tell him for me that he’s being an ass, alright?”

Castiel hums a small laugh. “I will. I’m sure he’ll react favorably.”

Sam chuckles and heads out the door, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts.

He’s just settled down on Dean’s couch to watch some TV when the apartment door opens and Dean stalks in, very deliberately not making eye contact. “Thought you would’ve left,” he mumbles as he shucks out of his jacket and restores it to its hanger in the closet.

“I will if you want me to,” Castiel says calmly. “Sam thought it might be better for me to stay here until he can get permission for the listening device. But I don’t want to be a burden. If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”

Dean looks up and, all of a sudden, the hard lines of his face crumple. “God, no, Cas. That’s the last thing I want.” He walks to the couch and slumps down next to Cas, pulling an arm around his shoulders. “You get that I’m just worried, right? I don’t want anything to happen to you, just because you feel some… some kind of obligation or guilt about what happened to your brother. Jimmy was a grown man, and he made his own choices. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

Castiel smiles and brings his hand up to cup Dean’s cheek. “That’s good advice, Dean,” he says, light and teasing, as he presses a soft kiss below Dean’s ear. “Is that what you do?”

Dean chuckles against Castiel’s cheek. “That’s the opposite of what I do. How’d you get to know me so well, asshole?”

From anyone else, the word would be an insult. Coming from Dean, it’s affectionate, a pet name.

“I happen to like you,” Castiel says, tracing the soft, full curve of Dean’s lower lip with his thumb. “And when I like someone, I make it a point to get to know them.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, taking hold of Castiel’s hips and pulling him into his lap. “Glad you haven’t found anything to scare you off yet.” The words are meant to tease, but there’s a heavy edge of uncertainty lurking just below the lightness.

Castiel leans forward to kiss it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here with me on this journey, I'm incredibly thrilled! We're getting close to the end now!
> 
> Next time: Cas confronts Nick. The truth about Jimmy's fate is revealed. Dean is forced to face his fear.


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days pass in a haze of mindless television, food deliveries, lazy kisses on the couch and whispered secrets in the dim light of Dean's bedroom.

Dean wishes he could keep himself and Cas wrapped in this small, fragile illusion of safety forever, but that’s not how the world works for him. Which is why, on the morning of Cas' fourth day at Dean's apartment, Sam appears with some paperwork and a recording device the size of a button battery.

“We still call them wires,” Sam says as he pulls the thing out of its case, “but they’re all digital now, of course. And they’re a lot smaller than they used to be. Even if someone was patting you down, they’d never find this unless they knew exactly what to look for. We can attach it to your tie or the underside of your shirt collar, or wherever else you want it.”

Cas nods, looking nervous but determined. “The collar is fine.”

“OK. You’ll have to drive to Nick’s office yourself, but I’ll be close by, inside an unmarked van, listening in.”

“So will I,” Dean cuts in. “Not negotiable.”

“Dean, you’re not with the department anymore. Singer’s going to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. We both know he’s got a soft spot for you. You’ll be fine. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Sam smiles sardonically. “I think you’ve got us confused. He’s got a soft spot for sure, but it’s for you.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snaps, annoyed by the warmth he can feel spreading across his cheeks.

“It’s really not.” Sam makes the face Dean associates with an impending speech; it's mostly in the determined downturn of his lips and the worried crease of his brows. “You should really consider coming back, Dean. A lot of people there miss you. I know some of them were a little weird after… you know, but people do understand that what happened to Benny wasn’t actually your fault.” A heavy silence falls, and Sam seems just as surprised as Dean that he mentioned Benny’s name like this — casually, in passing. Not too long ago, Dean would've stormed out of the room. Instead, he just sits, and Sam keeps talking. “Besides, I kinda miss having you around, even if you _are_ a stubborn jerk.”

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean says, covering his embarrassment with a leer. “Little early in the morning for love confessions, don't you think?"

“Dean,” Cas rumbles, raising a disapproving brow at him.

“It’s fine,” Sam sighs. “He’s always like this.”

Still, Cas escalates by kicking Dean under the table.

“Fine. Fine," Dean mutters, glaring at Cas, whose lips are twitching, before he turns back to his brother. “It's not that I don't appreciate being asked, but I'm feeling pretty good about where I am. With the business and everything.”

Sam grins. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it."

Dean returns the grin and feels something loosen in his chest — a tightness he'd grown so used to, he stopped noticing it long ago.

For a few minutes after that, conversation flows between them with relative ease. Until the weight of the wire, sitting on the table in front of Sam, becomes too heavy to ignore.

Eventually, Cas sighs. “So what’s the next step?”

“I’ll show you how to put the device on,” Sam says. “But really, the next step is for you to call your brother and ask to see him as soon as possible.”

Cas nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket, staring at it. “No point putting it off, right?”

Cas unlocks the screen and hits a couple of buttons, then puts the phone to his ear.

Dean holds his breath.

*** 

Nick agrees to see Castiel that afternoon, for which he’s profoundly grateful. He doesn’t think he could have slept, knowing he would be facing his brother the next day. Whatever happens, it’s going to happen some time in the next few hours.

With the appointment made and nothing left to do but wait for time to pass, the three of them move around Dean’s apartment like ghosts, trying to hide their nerves from each other. 

Sam is the calmest one among them, using the downtime to work on his computer. Castiel can’t settle his mind to anything and mostly stares, unseeing, out of the window. Dean covers his own stress with frantic activity, alternating between needlessly moving things around his apartment and fussing over Castiel, offering to make him drinks and food that Castiel doesn’t think he could manage to keep down.

As the time of the meeting draws closer, they discuss Castiel’s approach to the conversation — what he should, and shouldn’t, say to try to draw Nick out. But eventually, they start to talk in circles, and they fall quiet again.

Half an hour before he’s supposed to meet Nick, Castiel gets up to leave, the recording device tucked safely out of sight on the underside of his shirt collar, as discussed. His coat is going to stay at Dean’s apartment; they decided it was too risky for Nick to see Castiel wearing it.

After a quick glance at Sam, who smiles his understanding and turns away from them, Dean pulls Castiel into a fervent hug. “We’ll be close by, alright? We won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, perfectly aware that Dean is making promises he might not be able to keep. He pulls out of the hug and leans in for a kiss, the touch of his lips as firm and reassuring as he can manage, then walks down to where his truck is parked.

Throughout the drive to Novak Shipping, Castiel keeps an eye on his rearview mirror, watching the unmarked white van where he knows Sam and Dean will be listening to his conversation with Nick. Another unmarked car, just behind the van, contains Jo and Victor, two colleagues that Sam has deemed trustworthy. The only other member of the department who knows about the operation is Sam’s direct supervisor, Sergeant Singer. He signed off on the use of the cars and equipment.

The van’s presence behind Castiel is somewhat comforting, but as he pulls up to the front gate of the shipyard and watches the van keep driving along Third Street, his nerves kick up another notch.

He knows Sam and Dean aren’t going far, but if something does go wrong, it will take them a few minutes to get here. Not to mention they’ll have to convince the guard at the gate to let them through.

Castiel goes through the motions — parking in the lot, signing in at the front desk, boarding the elevator to the fifth floor — but all he can focus on is the frantic thudding of his heartbeat, sounding in his ears. His head is spinning, trying and failing to grasp the gravity of the conversation he’s about to have.

When Castiel reaches the CEO suite, Nick’s assistant waves him through to the office. Castiel raises a shaky hand to knock. He steps through the door, and Nick is there — Jimmy's likely killer, slouching behind their father’s desk.

In an instant, Castiel’s mind is calm. A simmering, focused anger thrums through him. This matters more than anything he has ever done. He won’t be caught making mistakes.

“Hey there, little bro,” Nick says, smirking. “Sit. Anything I can offer you? Dad’s minibar is still well-stocked, you know.”

Castiel forces a polite smile as he takes a seat across the desk from Nick. “No, thank you.”

Nick nods, unaffected. “Straight to business, then. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just wanted to ask you about something that’s been bothering me,” Castiel says, pleased to find his voice calm and firm. Nick nods, encouraging him to continue.

“When I was here months ago to talk about Jimmy, you never told me he’d been working here.”

Nick’s smirk is still in place, but Castiel is almost certain he saw it falter for just a moment.

“Must’ve slipped my mind.” Nick dismisses his oversight with a wave of his hand. “Before he got into all that unpleasantness and needed to disappear, he came to me for money to clear a different debt. I refused to give it to him outright, but, against my better judgment, I let him earn it by working here.” Nick spreads his hands, shrugging, the picture of helpless devotion to his wayward family member. “And look what my generosity got me. Nothing but more trouble.”

Castiel nods, planning his next move. “But here’s the thing that’s bothering me. You told me Jimmy was in trouble because he was stealing to feed his drug habit. And I just can’t help but wonder — why would you hire someone with an uncontrolled addiction and a history of theft? More to the point, why would you hire them for a job that gives them access to the company’s financial paperwork?”

The smirk definitely flickers this time, and it takes Nick a full three seconds to restore it.

“Come on, Cas. Don’t we all have a blind spot when it comes to family? I have more than one devoted employee who can be trusted to keep an eye on a high-risk colleague.” Nick’s voice is smooth and silky. Most people would think him calm, perhaps slightly amused. But Castiel has known Nick all his life, and he knows his brother’s tells: the strained set of his lips. The way his thumb rubs against the side of his index finger.

Nick is nervous.

“What I can’t figure out,” Nick says, sharpening his smile until it gleams, “is how you heard about Jimmy’s job. You have any friends here I didn’t know about? Should I be checking for moles?” He chuckles lightly, like they’re sharing a joke.

Castiel thinks of Sam and Dean, sitting in their van, listening in. They told him not to take any unnecessary risks, but now that he’s here, he finds that he just has to know. If he has to stretch the truth a little to knock Nick off balance, so be it.

“No,” Castiel says, smiling indulgently. “Of course not. Jimmy called me yesterday. _He_ told me.”

Nick’s expression changes in an instant, and Castiel’s last vestiges of doubt about his brother’s fate fall away. As Nick’s smirk slides off his face and his eyes widen, darting between Castiel and the office door, Castiel knows: Jimmy is dead, and Nick is the one who killed him.

“What do you mean, he called you?” Nick asks absently, his eyes still on the door over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Exactly what I said. He did mention something rather interesting. Now, what was the name?” Castiel taps a finger against his chin. “Oh, right. Fergus Crowley.”

Nick’s head snaps back to face Castiel. “What did you say?”

“Fergus Crowley,” Castiel repeats, slowly and clearly, even as his heartbeat speeds up again. “Jimmy seemed to think you were involved in some kind of shady business dealings with him. Drug trafficking, I think he said? And paying off customs inspectors to look the other way?”

“Now, Cas,” Nick says, a horrible mockery of his previous smile pulling at the corners of his face. “You wouldn’t take an addict’s word, would you? The man is obviously delusional.”

“Funny,” Castiel says. He's so angry now, he feels light with it. “That’s exactly what Michael said when Jimmy tried to tell him the truth. You never took Jimmy seriously, either of you. That’s where you went wrong. Because Jimmy was smart. He got proof of what you were doing, and he hid it where he knew you’d never find it.”

Nick’s face is twisted with barely controlled rage now, eyes narrowing, lips drawn impossibly thin.

Castiel knows it’s time — time to fire his last, best shot. “When you were rifling through Jimmy’s apartment, you never thought to check the vents, did you?”

For a few seconds that last an eternity, the room is silent, nothing but the sounds of their breathing filling the stuffy air.

Then, Nick laughs, a short, harsh sound. “The vents. The stupid fucking vents.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “He was smart about that one thing, at least. Really fucking stupid about others though.”

He turns to Castiel, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Did you know at least two different employees saw him stuff company paperwork into his bag and walk out with it? Jimmy told them I gave him permission to do it, but of course they came to me to make sure.” Nick leans back in his chair, smiling like he’s recalling a fond memory. “Well, I went to Jimmy’s house to figure out what he knew. Turns out what he knew was entirely too much for comfort.”

“So you killed him.” Castiel’s hands are gripping the arms of his chair so tightly, he’s amazed the wood hasn’t snapped. “You killed Jimmy.”

“Yes, but you already knew that somehow, didn’t you?” Nick shakes his head, looking reluctantly impressed. “That’s why you told me he called you. To get a rise out of me.”

Castiel smiles, secure in his victory. “I didn’t know. But I do now. And so does Dean Winchester. And so does his little brother, who happens to be with the white-collar crime unit at SFPD.”

Nick freezes, a moment’s confusion giving way to rage and renewed panic. “You absolute fucker,” he says, the words etched with disbelief. “You’re wearing a wire.”

Castiel nods his acknowledgement, almost missing the snake-like movement of Nick’s hand as it lunges for his desk drawer.

When Nick straightens, a gun is clutched in his right hand, pointing at Castiel’s chest.

“What I want you to do, Cas,” Nick says, his voice tightly controlled, “is walk through that door, nice and slow. We're going to take a little walk up to the roof.” He inclines his head at the sliding glass door behind his desk and to the right. Castiel knows the door leads onto a small balcony, which, in turn, connects to a rickety roof-access stairway. From there, several other sets of stairs descend into the maze of warehouses below. If Nick can make it to one of those quickly enough, he might actually be able to get away.

Castiel knows there is at least an even chance Nick will shoot him once his usefulness as a hostage runs out. 

Keeping his eyes on the gun in Nick's hand, he rises from his chair and starts to walk, praying that Sam, Dean and the others are on their way.

*** 

Dean’s just about ready to jump out of his skin. Being forced to sit here with noise-canceling headphones and listen to Cas try to get a hardened criminal to slip up, without getting himself hurt or, God forbid, killed… it’s the worst kind of torture.

He never used to be this jittery when Benny walked into danger with a potential suspect, but that was different. Benny was trained to do this kind of shit. Cas is an accountant, for fuck’s sake.

An accountant with a death wish, apparently, because that’s when Cas lies to Nick’s face and says he got a phone call from Jimmy yesterday. In complete disbelief, Dean looks up at Sam, who’s sitting next to him, his own set of headphones plugged into the receiver that's built into the side of the van.

“Holy shit,” he mouths at his brother, who just shakes his head and runs a hand over his face.

It takes less than another minute for Nick Novak to confess to murdering his own brother.

Dean rips off the headphones and pulls on his shoulder holster. “Fuck this,” he tells Sam. “I’m going in there. Cas got what we needed and then some.”

Sam nods. “Agreed. But you’re staying here. You’re not police anymore.”

“Tell me I’m staying again, and I _will_ punch you.”

Dean likes to think his tone leaves no room for argument. He might be right, because Sam just holds up both hands and smiles wryly. “Might _have_ to punch me if Singer finds out I let a civilian in on this. He’ll take pity on me if I’m injured.”

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. He pushes the van’s back door open and steps out, motioning to Jo and Vic, who look bored in the unmarked patrol car across the street.

They spring into action as soon as they see Sam leap off the van after Dean. It takes them less than a minute to sprint to the Novak Shipping gate, where a middle-aged security guard with a beer gut gets in their way and demands to see “some ID.”

Dean digs for his private investigator’s license and holds it out when his eyes catch on something.

There’s movement where there shouldn’t be.

He blinks, trying to adjust to the bright sunlight hitting his eyes from behind the roof of the main office building.

Someone’s on the fifth-floor balcony, heading for the roof-access stairs. Another person is following just behind them, something in their hand. The sunlight catches on gleaming metal. A gun.

Dean pushes the security guard out of his way, and he runs.

*** 

Castiel isn’t sure how much longer he can draw this out. With each agonizingly slow step he takes across the small balcony, he can sense Nick tensing up more and more behind him, until he’s literally breathing down Castiel’s neck.

“Think your friends are coming to save you, do you, Cas?” Nick hisses, prodding the muzzle of his gun into the small of Castiel’s back. “They sure seem to be taking their time. Maybe you were bluffing.”

Castiel takes a chance, and stops. He’s still several steps from the stairway. He needs to draw this out, get Nick talking. Moving carefully, he turns until he’s looking at his brother’s face. “All I want to know is what happened to Jimmy, Nick. Will you at least tell me that?”

Nick hums, sounding absurdly amused given the gravity of the situation. “I thought there was a certain poetry in having you act out this whole drama, pretending Jimmy threw himself into the ocean in a fit of depression. When this whole time…” Nick looks practically giddy as he watches Castiel’s face for his reaction. “… the real Jimmy was already at the bottom of the sea.”

Castiel turns away. He won't grant Nick the satisfaction of seeing his reaction.

His eyes catch on the pavement below. There are people at the entrance gate, arguing with each other, and a lone figure sprinting toward the office building. Castiel is too high up to see the person’s face, but he knows with the utmost certainty that it’s Dean, coming for him.

More than ever now, he needs to keep Nick from getting to the roof, where Dean can’t follow.

Castiel swallows heavily, then faces Nick again. He lets himself give in to his grief and his anger, not bothering to wipe at the tears when they begin to spill out of his eyes. “Why, Nick? He was our brother. Our family.”

“Oh, please, Cas.” Nick rolls his eyes. “Like you ever cared about this family. Michael and I were the only ones who gave a damn about carrying on dad’s legacy. But even Michael didn’t care enough. He didn’t have the kind of vision that I did. He was a follower.” Nick practically spits the last word. He looks agitated, but not agitated enough, because the muzzle of his gun is still squarely aimed at Castiel. “Always following good old daddy along the straight and narrow path. Never willing to do what it takes to make this company truly great.”

Castiel scoffs. “Is _that_ how you justified it? You got into drug trafficking to save the family business?” He lets his voice keep rising, relishing the burn of anger that pushes all thoughts of fear to the back of his mind.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Castiel,” Nick grits out, his own rage clearly simmering ever closer to the boiling point. “You washed your hands of the company. You decided to live some pathetic hermit life by the beach. You get no say in how things are run around here.”

“You’re forgetting something, Nick,” Castiel says, even as he calculates how long it might take Dean to get past the front desk, into the elevator, and find the right corridor that will lead him to Nick’s office. “When you go to jail, which you inevitably will, the board’s going to force you out as CEO. And guess who’s next in line, according to our father’s will?”

A muscle ticks in Nick’s jaw as he looks Castiel up and down, sizing him up. “You don’t want the company,” he says, but he sounds unsure. “You never wanted it.”

“You’re right." Castiel feels almost cheerful at the admission. “I _don’t_ want it. Which is why my one and only action as CEO will be to push through a merger with Michael’s company.”

Nick’s grip on his gun tightens. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Castiel says, just as fast-moving footsteps sound from a distant corridor. Nick hears it too. He steps forward and pushes Castiel, hard, in the direction of the stairs.

“Walk, or I’m pulling the fucking trigger right now.” Nick’s eyes are fury personified, and Castiel believes him. Step by step, he draws closer to the stairway.

All too soon, he's on it, and walking up.

The flimsy metal structure is suspended in the open air between the balcony and the roof, the gaps between steps giving Castiel a dizzying view of the ground below as he walks. Even for someone who isn’t particularly afraid of heights, it’s an uncomfortable experience.

The stairway has twenty steps at most, and Castiel is almost at the top when the sound of a door slamming inside Nick’s office makes him stop dead.

“Cas!”

Dean’s voice is easily the most beautiful sound Castiel has ever heard, but he doesn’t dare answer because the cold metal of Nick’s gun is still pressed against his back, urging him on.

Dean bursts through the door and onto the balcony, his own gun in hand. Nick twists around Castiel to stand on the step next to him, grabbing him by the neck and using his body to shield himself.

“Welcome, Dean. Nice of you to come,” Nick says, and Castiel can hear the leer in his voice. “I seem to have something you want, so why don’t you come and get it?”

Dean tenses, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, that’s right,” Nick sneers. “You can’t, can you? You’ve got that little issue with heights. After all, that’s why I hired you. Why else would I want a washed-up, broken has-been like you working for me?”

“You get the fuck away from him,” Dean grits out, voice shaking with barely suppressed fury. “Come back down here and let’s have this out right now, you and me.”

“Very impressive macho display there, but no, I don’t think so." Nick's voice is growing calmer in the face of Dean’s obvious unease. Castiel swallows as he notices that Dean is standing as far from the edge of the balcony as he possibly can.

“Here’s the thing though,” Nick says, obviously enjoying himself now. “I’m sure you’ve got backup coming, and they’re unlikely to quake in their boots at the thought of climbing a couple of stairs. So I’m getting out of here. And little bro,” he yanks at the back of Castiel’s shirt for emphasis, “is coming with me.”

Nick takes a step back, pulling Castiel along in his wake.

“No!” Dean’s voice is raw and scraped, and there’s panic in his eyes. He swallows heavily and surges forward until one of his hands meets the low, flimsy railing of the stairway. His eyes close and his chest shakes with heaving, ragged breaths.

"Dean, just stay there. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK.” Even as he speaks, Castiel knows he's exposing more of his emotions than he should, handing Nick weapons, but it doesn’t seem to matter when Dean looks like he’s beside himself with panic.

“Oh, well, isn’t this interesting?” Castiel hates the cheerful mockery in Nick’s voice. “Got a little piece of the pretty detective, did you, Cas? Can’t say I blame you.”

Dean looks up at Nick, raw hatred in his eyes. “I’m not letting you take him from me. Not again.” He surges forward and starts to climb. Nick and Castiel are still a good fifteen steps above him, but Dean is gaining quickly, and for a second, Castiel wonders why Nick isn’t moving.

He feels the pressure of Nick’s gun leave his back. A deafening sound rings out.

Dean’s eyes widen and he clutches at his side. A red stain is blooming across the front of his shirt.

Another shot rings out. This one hits Dean in the shoulder. He’s still clutching at the other wound, not holding on to anything else, so the impact of the bullet knocks him completely off balance.

Castiel watches in horror as Dean’s body is thrown against the low, flimsy handrail, too hard for him to catch himself.

More people appear on the balcony below, but Castiel only has eyes for Dean, whose hand shoots out to grab the railing at the last moment even as he topples over.

Nick’s grip on Castiel has slackened, his attention distracted by the newcomers. Castiel tears himself loose.

*** 

Dean knows he’s about to die.

He’s still hanging on to the railing with one hand, but he won’t last much longer. His arm is throbbing, the muscles screaming at him to let go.

Black, strangling panic is making it nearly impossible to think. He keeps his eyes fixed up, away from the pavement that’s beckoning to him five floors below.

If he had the use of his other arm, he might be able to pull himself to safety. But that’s where the second bullet hit, and there’s no way an injured shoulder can support his weight.

Out of nowhere, a face appears above his, and a hand stretches out to grip his arm.

Dean’s vision is blurry from the combined effects of fear and pain, and for a second, he thinks it’s Benny looking down at him. He wants to shout a warning, tell him to look out for the loose tile.

But it’s not Benny. It’s Cas, and his lips are moving.

Dean swallows, trying to listen past the roaring of blood in his ears.

“-need you to give me your other hand, Dean. It’s going to hurt, but it’s the only way I can get a good grip on you. Can you do that?”

Dean starts to move his hand, but then he remembers: Benny, his hand outstretched, slipping. The angel in his dream, reaching out to pull him from a flaming pit. They both fell.

Dean drops his hand.

Cas’ lips are still moving, his eyes wide.

“-hear me, Dean? Give me your hand!”

From somewhere in the fog clouding his brain, another part of the dream comes back to him: a low, raspy whisper. _“I’m an angel, did you know that? Angels don’t die when they fall. Angels can fly.”_

With a sob that’s half grief and half pain, Dean wrenches his hand up to clutch at Cas’ arm. Cas grabs hold of him and starts to pull. Then Sam is there too, the two of them working together to drag him the rest of the way up, onto the safety of the staircase.

The last thing Dean notices before he passes out is a head covered in messy dark hair, burrowing into his chest.

**END PART II**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry - the fluffy, smutty epilogue we all deserve after this is just a click away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has gone on this journey with me. Every comment, every kudos and every reblog has been incredibly important in keeping me motivated. 
> 
> (And if you happen to read this a couple of months from now, know that I STILL want your comments, kudos and reblogs and they will still be important because they will help me keep writing other things.)
> 
> A special shoutout goes to [tfw_cas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfw_cas/pseuds/tfw_cas), who never failed to leave detailed, thoughtful comments on every single chapter. Every one of them made my day - thank you, friend.
> 
> If you'd like to know what I'm up to next, take a look at the end note below the epilogue for the summary of my next WIP. If you want to be alerted when it starts posting, you can subscribe to me [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta).
> 
> Now on with the epilogue!

**Epilogue**

_Six Months Later_

_SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE, OCTOBER 10, 2020, FRONT PAGE_

**_Novak Sentenced to Life in Prison; Victim’s Discovery Key_ **

_Nick Novak, 47, was sentenced today to life in prison on a long list of charges that included first-degree murder, drug trafficking and conspiracy to commit fraud._

_The former CEO of Novak Shipping was accused of murdering his younger brother, James Novak Jr., to cover up an extensive trafficking operation run behind the scenes of the family business. A twist in the case arrived with the discovery of a body in shallow waters near Linda Mar two months ago. Police have since identified the remains as those of James Novak Jr._

_Nick Novak’s arrest came during a dramatic rooftop confrontation, where he sustained non-life-threatening injuries in a shootout with police. Dean Winchester, owner of Winchester Investigations, was also injured, but has since made a full recovery._

_The prosecution’s case against Novak rested heavily on a series of incriminating statements captured by a recording device. The identity of the police informant who obtained the statements has not been disclosed to the public._

_At a press conference earlier this week, new Novak Shipping CEO Michael Novak pledged to use his tenure to “wipe the stink of corruption off my family’s legacy.”_

_Meanwhile, Nick Novak’s alleged co-conspirator, prominent attorney Fergus Crowley, is scheduled to be arraigned in federal court on Monday. Crowley was arrested at Sacramento International Airport as he attempted to flee the country aboard a private plane._

_Investigators have also questioned two Port of San Francisco cargo inspectors and several members of the police department. (continued on page 5)_

“C’mon, Cas. Give me another inch. I can handle it.”

Castiel raises a skeptical eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Are you sure? I thought the doctor told you not to overdo it. Baby steps, remember?”

“Pam also told me to have confidence that I know my own limits,” Dean answers, rolling his eyes. “So just move the damn thing already.”

Castiel grumbles, but does as he’s told, grabbing hold of his Adirondack chair and inching it just that little bit closer to the railing of his back porch, with its dramatic view of cliffs and the churning sea below.

Dean pushes his chair forward alongside Castiel’s and, after the briefest hesitation, he sits. There’s a slight breeze, but the ocean looks beautiful, glinting red and golden in the light of the setting sun.

Castiel lets himself fall into his own chair and reaches for Dean’s hand. He’s pleased to find it’s barely shaking at all.

Over the past few weeks, at the insistence of Dean’s new therapist, they’ve been working on getting him more comfortable around heights, in slow increments. It takes a lot of patience, and there have been setbacks, but Dean seems to be feeling confident today.

“Are you cold?” Dean asks, turning to Castiel with a small smile.

There _is_ a slight chill in the air, but looking at Dean’s warm, contented face, Castiel can barely feel it. “I’m fine,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hand in reassurance. “How was your day?”

Dean scrunches up his forehead. “Good, I think. Damn, I’m really getting old. Can’t even remember what I did a couple hours ago.”

Castiel chuckles. “That happens to me all the time. Downsides of working in a profession where the days blend into each other.”

“You know, if you’re bored working at home all by yourself, my offer still stands." Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand to pick up a bottle of beer from the cooler next to his chair and crack it open against the hard plastic of the armrest. The cooler is a recent acquisition and appeared right around the time they started to work on sitting on the porch together.

“Sharing office space? I don’t know, Dean. We already spend basically every night together.” Castiel bites his lip, hesitating. “Aren’t you going to get tired of me if you see me at the office all day too?”

“Nah.” Dean winks as he takes a sip of his beer. He digs around the cooler for another bottle and passes it to Castiel. “I like having you around. Besides, with business being so good, I’m looking to upgrade to a bigger space. Could easily be a place with two private offices.”

Castiel hums. “You’re sure it wouldn’t disturb you, or your clients?”

It’s a legitimate concern. The publicity resulting from Nick’s trial has made Winchester Investigations locally famous, and Dean is busy, to the point of being able to choose the cases he wants to work. He was especially proud of his role in reuniting a troubled teen with her family a few weeks ago.

“If anything, it’ll be good for business.” Dean’s flirtatious grin warms Castiel to his core, even as the first sip of cold beer hits the back of his throat. “People might be more inclined to trust me when they see I managed to convince a respectable guy like you to stick with me.”

“I don’t know about respectable,” Castiel says, matching Dean’s light and easy tone. “Maybe if I was still ‘Castiel Novak, CEO of Novak Shipping.’ The most respectable job I’ve ever had, and I lasted less than three weeks.”

Dean hums, sounding quietly amused, but when he turns to face Castiel, there’s a slightly worried cast to his features. “D’you ever regret it? Handing the company to Michael?”

Castiel leans over to plant a reassuring kiss on the side of Dean’s head. “Not once.” He looks down at his bottle thoughtfully, twirling it in his hands. “If it wasn’t for that company, I think life would have been very different for my family. My mother might still have been depressed, but maybe she’d be alive. I know Jimmy would be.”

As always, Castiel feels a dull weight on his chest and a slight prickle at the back of his eyes when he thinks of Amelia and Jimmy. He wonders what his mother would think of his life now. Would she consider him a failure because he couldn’t save his brother? Or would she smile, knowing that Castiel found the person he was meant to save instead?

“We should go visit Jimmy’s grave tomorrow,” Dean says, softly, into the end-of-day quiet. “Check on it. See if it needs new flowers.”

Castiel nods. He hopes Dean can still see his grateful smile in the rapidly fading light. “I’d like that.”

“Ha!” Dean claps a hand on Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel startles so hard, he almost spills his beer. Dean snorts. “Sorry, Cas. It’s just, I finally remembered something I did today. I ran into Lisa, and we ended up going for lunch.”

“How is she?”

“Good,” Dean says, his fond expression just barely visible amid the growing shadows on the porch. “She’s still seeing Dr. Matt. Thinks he might be getting ready to propose.”

“Good for her. I’m glad she’s happy." Castiel has only met Lisa a handful of times, but she seems like a kind person.

“Me too,” Dean agrees wholeheartedly. “Caught her up on all the latest news about Sam and his mysterious lady friend, of course. Oh, I didn’t even tell you!” Castiel flinches again as Dean elbows him in the ribs. That particular spot has taken its fair share of abuse over the past couple of months. But every one of his bruises is a result of Dean being excited or cheerful about something, so Castiel can’t find it in himself to complain. “I finally found out what she’s called! Charlie told me. Her name’s Eileen and she works as an ASL interpreter for the department.”

Castiel frowns. “Do you think he’s ever going to introduce us? I’m starting to worry your brother is embarrassed of us.”

“We _are_ pretty sappy. Can’t say I blame him,” Dean says cheerfully, taking another drag of his beer.

They sit in silence for a minute, watching the last few rays of sunlight disappear beyond the horizon.

“Hey, what d’you say I show you how extremely comfortable I am out here by getting on my knees and sucking your dick?”

“Tempting. But I’d like to point out that you’ve just taken an extremely romantic moment and completely ruined the mood with your dirty mouth.”

“Huh. What can I do to make it up to you?” Dean asks, failing to sound regretful.

“You could let me fuck you.”

“Hell yeah.” Dean’s audible enthusiasm sends a spike of arousal straight to Castiel’s groin. “ _Now_ who’s got the dirty mouth?”

“You call that dirty?” Castiel replies, lowering his voice in the exact way that never fails to make Dean shiver. “I think we can both do better, don’t you?”

Dean leans in to kiss him, soft at first, then hard and demanding, until the increasingly chilly breeze convinces them to stop and head inside.

They don’t manage to stay apart for long, and soon after, Castiel finds himself pushing into the welcoming warmth Dean’s body, a low moan dragging out of him at the gorgeous sight of his boyfriend, gasping and writhing beneath him.

“Feels so good, Cas,” Dean murmurs against Castiel’s ear. “Love having you inside me.”

“You too. So good. Always feel so good.” Castiel forces the words out between panting breaths, barely coherent as he takes in the smooth expanse of Dean’s chest and the lovely contrast of sandy lashes against lust-darkened green eyes.

Their bodies know how to move in perfect sync by now, skin meeting skin in well-practiced motions that still feel raw and exciting every time.

The tight heat surrounding Castiel and the broken endearments spilling from Dean's lips have him speeding up his movements, wanting to be closer, deeper. He grabs hold of Dean's length, jerking his wrist in time with his thrusts, and treasures the ragged moan he gets in response.

“Love you,” Dean gasps, eyes closing as his body tightens around Castiel. “Love you so much, Cas.”

“I love you, too.” He’s said the words so often that they slide off his tongue easily, even as heat coils inside him and it becomes difficult to form any thoughts at all.

Castiel feels his climax building, deep down at first, then rising, ready for him to meet it.

He lets go, safe in the knowledge that Dean will not let him fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thanks for coming along for the ride.
> 
> My next WIP should start posting next week. Here's the summary:
> 
> When you perform a spell to defeat God himself, there’s bound to be side effects — such as every version of Team Free Will getting zapped to an alternate universe.
> 
> The former residents of the Endverse find themselves in an underground bunker full of the kinds of food they haven’t seen in years and clothes that magically fit them. As Dean adjusts to life in a world where Croatoan never got out of control, he faces some tough questions: Can he forgive Sam for saying yes to Lucifer? And is his relationship with Cas really beyond saving?
> 
> The residents of the bunker, meanwhile, wake up as employees of HunterCorp, whose CEO is one John Winchester. Being around people Dean lost years ago is no picnic, and it’s changing the dynamic of his relationship with Cas in ways he never expected. But is the change meant to last, or will they fall back into old patterns when they return to their own universe?

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, indulge this needy writer by leaving a comment or kudos. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you want my undying gratitude, consider giving this fic [a reblog](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post/625244862173855744/a-fear-of-falling-now-complete-read-it-on-ao3)?


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